


Run The Gauntlet

by natashawitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Benny, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Background Case, Benny is not a vampire, Collars, Insecure Dean, M/M, Mating, Minor Original Character(s), Mpreg, Omega Dean, Omega Verse, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-02-17 13:41:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 73,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2311631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natashawitch/pseuds/natashawitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sent on a hunt to Gauntlet Island, Dean discovers more than he bargained for. Is there really a hunt? Did John want him out of the way? Does Gauntlet offer haven or peril? Alpha eyes are watching the newcomer. What happens next could change everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural or its characters. No copyright infringement intended. Just playing in the sandbox.  
> 2\. IMPORTANT – there is an instance of attempted sexual assault in a later chapter. I will warn for it, but please be aware before you begin to read, that it is an integral part of the story.  
> 3\. Gauntlet Island doesn’t exist. I’ve raised the seabed to the west of Little Cranberry off Maine.  
> 4\. I have also gender-switched Robin from Bad Boys, who is mentioned in passing.  
> 5\. Also there is some world building and not a lot happens… yet

Dean rests his forehead against the cold railing. The unpleasant burn of icy metal wakes something inside his muddled brain. It helps him to focus. 

_Focus, Dean, Focus_

He can hear his father growl, feel John’s fingers digging into the muscle of his arms, too hard, too deep. Shoving the sense memory away, Dean squares his shoulders, gets his ass in gear, and scans his fellow passengers with a suspicious eye.

Gazes skitter away. A woman in a warm coat suddenly finds renewed interest in her notebook. A couple of beaky nosed betas check their phones, their watches, the sky. Pups onboard are slower to avert their eyes, still trying to pick up his confusing scent with their immature noses. 

They are looking at his bare collarless neck, his bruised cheek, the absence of an alpha of any description. 

Dean’s been passing as a beta for years, as a necessity. No way in any universe was any authority going to let a lone teenage omega be responsible for an alpha pup. Maybe if Sam had been his own and they’d had somewhere stable to live… Dean mentally shrugs, dispelling his old rambles and fantasies. Anyway Dad always came back. Dean hadn’t been a deserted omega, until now…

He bites down on his lip, hard and piercing where he’d cut through it when he’d been dumped out of the retro motel in Hazleton, holding back a yelp, or maybe a protest that would have only made things worse, made Dean even more of a disobedient son. 

“No defensive wounds.” The terse commentary on his condition comes from his right. 

Dean turns on the heel of one boot. It’s a cop, which is just peachy. The guy is alpha, tall but older, graying hairs bush over his ears. Probably put out to pasture on this godforsaken island, Dean supposes.

Dark eyes are roving over his clean unbroken knuckles to the marks of his Dad’s fingers poking out from beneath his hitched up jacket sleeve.

“Where is your family, boy?”

Dean gulps. He clears his throat. It’s a simple question and he doesn’t want to get off on the wrong foot. He could be here for a while, especially when the real answer is that his family have deserted him, no longer useful enough to keep around. He ducks his eyes and aims for respectful.

“My Alpha-Dad has a friend who owns a cabin on the north shore of Gauntlet. I’m early. Going to clean it up and get it ready for his arrival.”

The cop harrumphs, a guttural almost purring noise at the back of his throat, lifts his cap to scratch at his receding hairline. With a nod the older alpha adds, "Sheriff Bryson. That’s my boy, Don, over there. You come tell me if you get any hassle.” He leans forward while Dean takes in the sight of a huge tree-trunk-limbed alpha leaning, with surly arms crossed, against the back railing. “We don’t got no pharmacy on the isle. You looking for scent maskers and crap, won’t find them out here.”

Dean focuses on the button of the guy’s lapel. “No sir. Not me.”

In a rude move, but one not unexpected from a member of the law, Sherriff Bryson leans closer and scents Dean’s neck. “You been ill then, son?”

The question is asked softly, almost with a modicum of concern mixed into professional curiosity regarding the outsider. 

Dean shakes his head, wishes the cop would just leave him alone. The sea is calm but the roll of the ferry is making Dean queasy. There can’t be much longer until they arrive. 

“I…” The words form a hard ball pressing on his larynx. “Not sick. I was on ‘em. Not now. Guess still not totally outta my system.”

It’s the bare truth. Dean hadn’t seen the point once Sam had bailed. He’d let the script lapse and had bought clean scented hair and body shampoo. Travelling with Dad, he had thought he could be himself. That mistake got corrected quick smart.

Another huff comes from the alpha, but at least he is turning away. “We do got a medic. Semi-retired beta outta Tampa, came North to kick his heels.” There is a single laugh, as if this is well worn local humor. “Lives next to the firehouse, if y’know, you’re not ill again.”

He doesn’t believe Dean. The omega’s jaw slackens, surprised that the truth wasn’t perceived as such. Maybe he’s been lying for so long that people can’t tell anymore. His skin crawls, uncomfortable with this new insight into his poor character. 

_You lie to yourself, Dean. Open your eyes. Dad doesn’t rely on you, doesn’t need you, doesn’t respect you when you act like his little obedient toy solider. You can claim it’s all for the family. But Dean we are the most dysfunctional mess of a family and I’m done. You hear, I’m done with it. I’m getting out and you should too._

Sam was wrong. Full of alpha steam and brio, he has no conception of how Dean used every thread and sinew of his being to sew their family of three together, keeping his alphas fed, comforted, and happy. Sam has no clue of what it had cost Dean to put aside his dreams, wishes, wants, and desires to give every ounce to raising his brother into a clever, capable, independent-minded, handsome and massive alpha. Dean holds no regrets. Sam might have dumped his sorry ass once Stanford had called, but Sam’s achievements fill Dean with pride. He just wishes they hadn’t fallen out after Dad’s raging temper fueled lecture about Sam’s responsibilities to his family, to his omega brother. Dean had tried to play peacemaker, standing between two blazing eyed alphas, but this time it hadn’t worked. This time Sam’s eyes told of betrayal that Dean had not taken his brother’s side. Dad’s backhanded slap after Sam split told of disgust that Dean hadn’t used his influence to convince Sam to stay.

A tinny announcement tells him they will dock in five minutes and would everyone alighting for Gauntlet please wait until the barriers are open to disembark. His duffel is at his feet. A weariness settles over Dean. It sticks his feet to the yellowed wood deck. If he stayed onboard would anyone notice? He could travel back and forth across the water, from one Cranberry Island to the next, surviving on packets of salted nuts and weak coffee, until finally there might be a storm and he’d slide overboard down into the deep dark waters never to be seen again.

His elbow is jostled by a family with two beta parents and a house worth of luggage. Dean blinks, gets his ass in gear and marches down to the small fishing community on the southwest shore. The place looks depopulated and like a postcard of an Icelandic village or Svalbard or some Arctic island that Dean must have seen on someone’s notice board somewhere. The widely spread houses are clad in colored wood with high vaulted roofs. Cutesy signs advertise which ones are in fact stores, offices, and the only guesthouse rather than private homes. Dean looks for the sign indicating the way to the cliff walk. He’s been told, correction instructed, by his father that Caleb’s family’s fishing cabin is a two mile hike. As he passes two single storey bar and eateries on the edge of the village, Dean wonders where they get the custom to survive. Maybe in the summer this place teams with rough and ready tourists like Caleb’s lot and retreat to nature rusticator freaks. In the off season he bets those businesses teeter on the brink of foreclosure until the fishing boats are in and money flows. If Dean wasn’t so locked in his own head, he’d appreciate the ocean views more. He figures he’ll have plenty of time for sightseeing. 

Cresting the rocky top of the cliff path, Dean decides that he’d give his right kidney to have the Impala and a road to drive her on. As he hefts his bag to his opposite shoulder, he figures he’d throw in his left pinkie finger to have his beta-bud Caleb here too. Still if Caleb could have come, then Dean wouldn’t be here, exiled to the edge of the known universe to investigate what he estimates to be a non-case. True, once a year a young male omega is reported missing, only to turn up 48 hours later give or take, unharmed and unable to remember a thing. It hadn’t been known to happen every year, but turns out some omegas had turned up without anything been reported. Sherriff Bryson and his predecessors made nothing of the cases they had been alerted to. No harm, no foul. Caleb had heard stories, but had thought it was a folk-tale until a cousin had told him that had happened to her friend, who had wandered off and woken up with 52 hours vanished from his memory.

Dean doesn’t mind being bait. He knows John has dangled him and Sam in the face of everything from lurking spooks to the striga. 

Dean’s chest tightens. His own thoughts have trapped him, led him to the memory that must not be revisited. Dean squeezes his knuckle into his right eye and plants his boots into the dirt. He is moving on. Of course, John hasn’t said that Dean is bait in a trap, but the omega wasn’t being mendacious when he’d told the cop that his Alpha-Dad would follow. Dean is early, a couple weeks before the traditional vanishing. It gives him time to insinuate himself into the community, draw out their stories, and decide if there is a monster to be ganked. Maybe, if all the chips fall the right way, Dean will end the sonvabitch before John even considers joining him to take over the hunt. 

The north shore is desolate, rocky with little vegetation and sloping to the Atlantic. Here the sea is choppier and the wind brisker. The path forks. Dean takes the thinner less well maintained route towards a cluster of five shoreline cabins settled into the landscape as it slants to a U-shaped cove. Caleb’s is the middle one. All of them look like they’ve been closed up since Labor Day. He pulls the medieval style heavy door key and the smaller padlock key from the deep pocket of his leather coat. He doesn’t see the point of a padlock in this bleak place, but he supposes if you’re a burglar picking a cabin, you might choose the ones without additional locks. The place is clean, just a fine settling of dust. Caleb’s filled him in on the water pump, the generator, the linen closet, vacuum bagged linens, and the pantry of tinned and dehydrated foods. Important too is the two-man boat with outboard engine in the boathouse next to the slip down to the sea. Dean will use it to round the isle for supplies and gas for the generator. The mainland is too far to consider a flit to civilization in the small boat, but it’s a comfort to know he doesn’t have to hike over the cliffs every time he wants to leave the house. 

Once the generator is humming and the water pump going, Dean takes stock. There is an old TV which is deeper than it is wide. Dean grins, hoping they can pick up Dr Sexy out here. He bends from the waist to depress the button. Nothing freaking happens. He examines the blown innards of the casing. Muttering softly spoken but bitterly phrased curses about outdoors types who aren’t slaves to the gogglebox, Dean figures any dreams of couch potato-hood on this trip have been consigned to the trash can.

By the time Dean has nested to his minimum prerequisite, there is a fire being pulled high and bright up the flue. There is soup on the stovetop and his duffel is completely unpacked. He’s dressed the main bedroom in fresh linens, even hung the gingham curtains. He figures he’ll leave the cubby bunk-bed pup-like room until Dad insists he vacate the big room. The sofa-bed is lumpy and old, but there is a thread-pulled patchwork quilt in the closet. Dean spreads it over the ancient sofa, which he heaves closer to the fire to watch the flames dance.

It is only when Dean has curled into the corner of the sofa, digging his toes, some of which poke through his socks, into the soft quilt, slurping thick rich soup from a warmed pottery bowl that he thinks finally about checking in with John. No point calling Sam, no matter how much he craves to know if Sam is alright. He’d tried it. He called daily at first, but as Sam settled in, the calls got briefer, more rushed as Sam had a class or an activity to get to, then there was voicemail, the night when all Dean could hear was the sound of a party, the unreturned beseeching. Dean has some vestige of dignity and he isn’t dumb. Sam knows Dean’s number. Finally with a bitter ache in the pit of his stomach Dean left a message with Sam’s arrogant roomy. Sam could call Dean anytime he wanted but his omega brother wouldn’t annoy him any longer.

There is no hard liquor in the cabin. No beer either. So Dean can’t get rat-assed to forget everything that is such a cluster fuck in his worthless life. Instead he dials John, or at least he tries to dial John. There is no signal in the main room, the bedrooms, the tiny shower-room or the boathouse. Dean drags his feet up to the crest of the hill in hopes that being that much higher and closer to the village might work a technological miracle. He stands straight and fills his lungs with night air under the starry sky. He expects the tang of salt and ozone to hit the back of his throat. What takes him aback is the faintest whiff of baked warm spices, old comfortable leather and the smell of freshly turned earth after rain. It makes him pause in his hectic quest. He lifts his nose, trying without success to trace the alluring scent. The night is too dark, but he knows he is the only soul on the pathway. If some sweet smelling alpha came by, there is no sign of him or her now. He pinches the bridge of his nose to help him refocus, raises the darned cell phone as high as he can. Nothing, not a single bar of reception. With defeat comes the realization that he is shivering in his sweatpants. He grips his stupid useless device with a punishing grip and shouts outrage at the satellites in the sky for being pricks. 

No one can say he didn’t try. He’ll have to find a landline at the dock tomorrow, or else face the wrath of an enraged John dragged out to sea on a wild goose chase. As he shuts the door against the dark evening and retakes his spot on the sofa, warming his feet on an iron firedog, Dean permits himself a wry laugh. Maybe those omegas weren’t missing. Maybe there is a patch of wacky mushrooms on the island, or they were the types who couldn’t hold their liquor. By tomorrow Dean’ll have been incommunicado for 24 hours and if he did have the capability to drink himself into a stupor, then he’d be found unharmed with a blackout gap in his memory. The thought that there might not be a monster on the isle doesn’t make Dean bitter at being sent to chase a red herring. Instead he figures he can stay the few weeks, chill out, maybe if he can stop the negative spiral in his brain and crank up some energy, he’ll figure out what he wants to do with his excuse for a life. 

He is twenty three years of age. Times might be modern. Omegas are no longer locked in their homes. Hell, in the big metropolises they commonly forego collars, increasingly opting for an exchange of rings like beta matings. However the biological need to mate, the drive to nest, hasn’t gone from humanity. Most omegas find their alpha mates before entering their twenties, unless they are the smart exceptions who pursue academic achievements or have something wrong with them. 

Dean rubs his own bicep. The only thing wrong with him when he was sixteen and up, was that he had another mouth to feed at home and the nomadic life of a hunter’s son. No way back at sixteen would he ever have left Sam behind, and what alpha wanted an eleven year old alpha pup in the mating package. Sam was the pivot of Dean’s life, to be protected, watched over, cared for... He couldn’t form attachments. That wasn’t to say that he hadn’t had to dodge the advances of amorous alphas and the threats of predatory ones. There’d been a couple of maybes. Dean quirks his lip at the memories of kinky alpha Rhonda and bendy beta Lisa. 

He lets his mind wander to the only other time he’d been without suppressants and scent maskers since John’d first sourced sups for him. That had been after his heat at fourteen years of age had delayed a hunt for a rawhead in Galveston. Two years later in Sonny’s Omega Boys Home, a kindly alpha-mentor, Robin the cute beta dude who waited tables at the local diner, and experiencing what it was like to be at home in his own skin. Despite all the flailed raw feelings of desertion going on in Dean’s noggin, his body is on board with being omega and proud. Mornings without been woken by internal jackhammers of headache side-effects, no tremors or aches in his muscles, and improved senses of smell and taste, are awesome.

Dean doesn’t make it to his newly dressed bed that night. He wakes to sunlight through grimy windowpanes and the embers' faint glow. The morning is spent showering and jacking off with his own slick as lube which is all kinds of awesome when there is no father or little runt to chew you out for stinking up the motel bathroom. Dean checks out the low line of cabinets on the west wall of the main room. He’d laid out his guns, knives and hunter’s essentials on the surface the evening before. Inside the largest cabinet are salt, iron filings, rosaries to make holy water, a shotgun, ammo and a couple of silver knives. They go to prove the cabin belongs to the side of Caleb’s family who know things do go bump in the night. Opening the final cabinet under the defunct TV, Dean fist pumps. There is hidden treasure in the form of an old beat box. He opens the flap. Batteries haven’t corroded. Dean has a few of his cassettes with him. To the blaring rhythm of Pink Floyd, Dean cleans the windows, every one of them, even in the room he’s not using. He chops a portion of the large stack of logs into smaller pieces. He wrestles with the outboard engine until he gets out the tool box and gives it the Dean Winchester once over. Bemoaning the lack of carbs, Dean eats beans in tomato sauce from the can for his lunch. The need for bread and noodles entices Dean to push the boat down the slip into the water. His jeans are sodden to the knee when he flings himself into the craft. He sees the funny side of being easily identified as a landlubber, and takes the boat around the short peninsula with a light heart and a sunny smile. From his vantage point the community clustered around the dock looks quaint and an unlikely location for an omega-stealing monster. He spies the phone booth by the fish-filleting building. That wipes any lingering grin from his face. Dean scrubs his hand over his mouth and chin, steels his reserve and once the boat is secured to a ring, he climbs the iron rungs of the ladder to the boardwalk with grim determination. 

John wants fucking co-ordinates. 

Dean rolls his eyes so far that it hurts, and obliges, telling John that he is exactly where he is supposed to be.

“Report.”

An enquiry about his well being would be nice, but Dean’s too well seasoned to expect one. He might drop the handset in shock if it happened.

“Nothing to report, Sir.”

“Dean?” John’s voice is spread thin, patience a rare commodity. “Arrival? Signs? Reason for no contact?”

“I arrived.” Dean is trying his best not to sound churlish, “I got to the cabin. I slept. There’s no signal here.”

“Watch your cheek. Your hunt. Dean, you are old enough to do this. Do it. Go talk to people.”

Amid the reprimand, there is a sign that John is giving him the hunt, trusting him with it. 

“Check in again tomorrow. Call me when you need me there, for the hunt or as alpha.”

Dean deflates. There is it. No matter what, he’s still the son who turned out to be a disappointing omega. His father cares. Dean knows this. He clings to it.

“How’s your hunt going, Dad?” Dean cradles the phone between his chin and his shoulder, rubs his hands together. Maybe they sell gloves in one of the stores.

“Chupacabra is a wily shit.” John pauses. “I’m ten hours out at full speed. You got it, Dean? No heroics. I need ten hours warning.”

Dean nods, knows John can’t see him. Omegas aren’t heroes. They are victims, bait, princesses in towers. Dean is a burden, one that could drag John away from Pennsylvania and ending a monster that is actually killing people.

“Yes. Sir,” Dean says before the pause is too long. 

He is dismissed, stumbles from the booth, disorientated by the switching emotions of the call. He is mid humiliating face plant into the packed dirt ground, when vice-like alpha hands come out of nowhere, catching him bodily, pulling him with such force that his breath is shortened and his feet are airborne.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean investigates, familiarizes himself with Gauntlet, and eats pie and a burger. Things take a dark turn.
> 
> WARNING: Sexual intimidation. Threat of sexual violence.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSPN+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

Dean can’t breathe. 

He can’t inhale against the band of alpha arms pressing on his ribs. Feeling helpless ranks sky high on the list of Dean-hates. He is tempted to object but the giant is righting Dean onto his pins. Kicking with his steel toed boot would be pretty ungrateful when the alpha had helped him swap face plant embarrassment for omega-in-distress humiliation. Dean would bet his bowie knife that his scent is a whole hodge podge of distress signals.

“Hey little one, you still all alone? You OK, pretty pup?” 

It’s Don from the ferry, puffed up alpha son of the lawman, spouting belittling terms in a condescending tone. The only thing stopping Dean from planting a curled fist in his rescuer’s fugly plump jaw is the hunt. He lets his body go limp like a swooning omega and allows Don to guide him to a stone bench overlooking the sea.

“Thanks, Alpha.” Dean emphasizes the ‘alpha’. He’s good at subtle interrogation, way better than John. People will talk to Dean. 

An arm curls around his back, supporting him. It’s not invasive. Don’s underlying scent does nothing for Dean, a bland neutrality of not-mate mixed with the sour taint of a self-important-dickbag. That undertone is fairly repulsive but Dean just sniffles, as if he is upset, to dispel it. Yet despite the offence to his nose, Don is being mannerly. Dean is not above using the situation.

“I called my Dad.” Dean ducks his eyes as if he is overcome.

“Yeah?” Don enquires with a deep chesty rumble.

“He’s still coming and all, but I heard stuff, like about the island, and omegas, and stuff…” Dean lets his voice trail away. 

Don chuckles. He pats Dean on the shoulder with a meaty paw. Dean takes it as permission and looks up.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about those rumors. Rival islands vying for tourists spread ‘em. Couple of times we had omega boys missing for a day or two, turn up like bad pennies, chilled to the bone. Then all of a sudden, we’ve an urban legend on our not very urban island.”

“So you think it’s safe?” Dean tries.

“As safe as anywhere for a lone unmated omega.” 

The predatory undercurrent sets Dean’s bells ringing. He wants away from this alpha, this bench, now, sooner than now, but he dampens down his instincts. He’s good at that. 

“I suppose,” Dean picks the hem of his plaid over-shirt, aims for an impression of airheadedness, “Guess they coulda been wandering and fell and hit their heads, or something.”

There is another chuckle. “Or ran off for a day or two. If I had an omega, they’d never run off.”

Dean jumps up, hearing loud and clear the suggestion that Don’s omega would not be able to run anywhere. He brushes down the thighs of his denims.

“Huh, thanks and all, for the hand. I got to go.”

“Fine.” Don’s smile is calculating. It makes Dean’s hair stand on end. “Be seeing you round.”

Dean nods, making his way to the general store. He has more luck with the older omega working the cash drawer. Kenny believes the hype. He presses his hand to Dean’s wrist and warns him to be careful, says the ones that lost a day or so out of their lives vanished at night, tells Dean to lock his door until the rest of his family join him on his vacation. 

With his provisions stashed under the boat’s tarp, Dean does a little recon. Gloves are chosen from a taciturn old beta storekeeper who gives him a look cold enough to chill his bones when Dean tries to bring up omega disappearances. 

The community peters out to clapboard summer homes and a few distressed yet inhabited looking cabins on the south-western coast. He follows a track inland to the lee of a shallow valley. A clear stream bubbles over rocks and round the grounds of a whitewashed chapel with tall double doors. Taking a turn back to what passes for civilization, there is the tiniest elementary school Dean’s ever seen. He and Sam went to all sorts of educational establishments but this looks like a one-bed trailer. An omega in his twenties, wrapped up in scarves and a beanie, passes with a stroller. When Dean salutes him the guy stops. Jonah tells him that the older kids are schooled on the mainland. It’s kind of sad. Dean says so. That leads to a discussion of if Dean is promised to someone, thinking of moving to Gauntlet. There is the hope of a lonely young omega-parent in the guy’s speech. Dean extracts himself as a hand-rung bell sounds inside, having been too sympathetic to pump the guy for information.

He listens in, as he gets a surprisingly good espresso from the beta in the bookstore, cum library, cum mariners supply chandlers. She keeps looking over his shoulder for an alpha but Dean’s too bummed by that point to explain. He does learn that Mac’s is the eatery of choice for the discerning local and that Mac, the alpha-proprietor, carries craft beer from the mainland which he brings over in his pilot boat that doubles at the shepherd for any unfamiliar craft. Seems there is a reef between Gauntlet and the next uninhabited rock. 

Dean stores up parcels of gossip and warnings. He’ll make notes when he gets home, read them over, and see if he can glean any hints. The trip back round to the cabin is bouncier, the small craft not doing Dean’s digestive system any favors. If he was still on the sups he’d be chucking over the side. 

When he unpacks his groceries, Dean finds that his egg carton is labeled as produced by the chickens of Geoff and Jonah Shields. He likes that the omega’s name is displayed proudly, and happily cracks a couple into the skillet. He toasts thick sliced sourdough and scoops a serving of the bookstore’s ground beans into the coffee plunger. 

Over his breakfast style dinner, Dean flicks through an eight page pamphlet on the island attractions. He’d plucked it from a display outside the tourist office cum museum cum pier-side café. He’d come by there last, too late to duck his head inside. He reads that the place is only open nine to three in the off season. There is a map spread across the two middle pages. Place names clue Dean in that early settlers were whaling folk. The preamble of isle history confirms his hunch, telling how the first French occupiers were driven out when Gaunt became a whaling station. It’s sort of quaint how the cabin is in Harpoon Cove. If Dean was to follow the cliff path in its northeasterly curve he’ll come over the rise of The Knuckle, pass above Shark Tooth Bay, arrive back at those clapboard cabins along Barnacle Sands, and pass over the freshwaters of Baleen Stream as it trickles to the ocean at Gaunt Dock. The stubby peninsula he rounds to get to the village is boringly named Toe Point, which makes Dean feel irrationally cheated and with a desire to name it Moby Dick’s Snout or some other creative marine name. Just as he is moving on to the less interesting pages on summer birding, water taxi services, and the founder of St. Nicholas’s chapel, he notices a faded mark by the Knuckle. Squinting he makes out ‘Caves’ in tiny print. It’s another place to consider. Dean’s never heard of a slimy creature who didn’t like a damp dark cave to skulk in.

The following day dawns clear and bright. Dean’s been blessed with crisp winter weather. He figures Gauntlet would be a hell of a place in the middle of a blizzard. Once he has chopped more wood and hefted it indoors, Dean sets off to complete the circuit of the island. The Knuckle is a disappointment. It’s not even a hill or a peninsula, just a rise in the cliff that is more like a bump. There is a faded marker telling the adventurous ambler that this is a ‘viewing place’ and the sea stack off shore is called The Nail. There is no visible path or likely place to clamber down the cliff, so Dean parks the idea of getting to the elusive caves until the tide is low. Shark Tooth Bay is all grass and sand. From his higher vantage point, Dean thinks he spies a mink slinking between the only dwelling and its dilapidated outhouse. Over Barnacle Sands, Dean is surprised to see a trio of teenage pups kicking a ball between the cabins. They wave at him. He lifts his brow and waves back. Maybe these are the kids who go to high school in Trenton on weekdays.

Dean makes the museum before close. There are even a few day trippers marveling at the two room display of marine artifacts, antique pieces from the homes of the first settlers, and panels on the flora and fauna of Acadia. In the far room Dean kneels on the floor to read the pup tailored legend that is illustrated above the skirting board, underneath silent artistic videos of Gauntlet through the seasons. 

There was a witch who lived at the source of the Baleen. She’d been washed ashore, the only survivor of a shipwreck. The fisher folk took pity on her. They brought her the choice of their catches and she cast spells of protection over their boats. But she grew greedy.

Dean wrinkles his nose. Witches suck ass.

He sees he has been joined by a golden haired toddler pup in a stripy blue and pink dress that flares over her knees. Her lips are parted at the drawings of huge waves, piles of fish, and the witch in a Halloween costume. He tells himself that it’s nothing to do with his nesting instincts that he goes back to the beginning and reads aloud. His shoulder itches. He twists his head to see two slightly older male pups rapt and in awe. Warming to his audience, Dean adds sound effects of rushing wind and does the voices like he used to do for little Sammy. A little candy-sticky hand finds his when he tells that the stinky (his ad lib) witch got greedy.

“Then,” he pauses for dramatic effect, continuing in a hushed breathy voice. “The wicked witch wanted more. She stopped the Baleen from flowing, but the islanders sunk wells. She caused storms to rage but the islanders took shelter.”

Dean stretches his arms. The two younger pups take shelter under his wings. It’s nice. 

“Finally she summoned an evil sea spirit to suck the life out of every poor soul on Gauntlet.” Dean makes a slurping sound that gets the littlest blonde pup to giggle.

“What’d they do then, Mister?” The older pup asks with eyes wide.

“Brave Pastor Bopp.” Dean bites his lip. Seriously, the hero is named Bopp? “The brave padre marched through the hail and wind to the witch’s hovel.”

“Wassa hovel?” 

“Yucky place to live, like a pig sty.” Dean supplies, figuring there is artistic license involved in this retelling. If the witch was greedy why would she have been skulking in a hovel? “And he cast her out. He led all the people and they told her ‘No More’. They gathered together and the mean old witch was banished.”

Dean deflates. They banished her? Her bones aren’t on the island? Not a haunting then.

“What happened then?” the little miss asks.

The last sentence rounds off the story. “The people were so grateful to God that they dedicated the island to St Nicholas and built Pastor Bopp a home in the center of them all, and the wicked witch was never seen again.”

There is clapping. Dean looks up. The parents are there, as enthralled as their brood. Behind them Dean sees the looming attendant, but she looks kindly at him.

“An impromptu performance. Thank you, Omega.” The tall slim sliver haired beta says with a smile.

Dean’s cheeks pink. He fumbles to stand, but finds the Alpha-Dad helping him to his feet. 

“Annie likes you,” their omega-mother adds, “that is a feat. I’m Jacinta. This is my alpha Charles.”

“’Was nuthin,” Dean mumbles, shamed to be caught playing with the youngsters. What would his Dad say?

“Was not.” Charles insists. “You have made our trip to the Cranberry Isles, Omega.”

Dean preens. The alpha praise warms him, stirs something needy in his soul and adds a balm to that want. Stupid tears are prickling his eyes. He wipes with one hand. How can being seen as worthy by a complete stranger impact him so much? He is guided by one warm hand in the small of his back and another small one reaching up for his fingers to the glass conservatory that serves as seating for the single counter café. They buy him pie when he meeps, like a pup himself, at the glass display of pastries.

He has two mouthfuls savored when Jacinta draws him back to reality.

“Are you a resident...?”

“Dean.” He supplies his real name before his dumb brain remembers that he is on one of his Zeppelin IDs. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. The family are day trippers. “No, Ma’am, I’m vacationing.”

There are drawn brows of concern at this information. It is only then that Dean takes in the wide brown collar around Jacinta’s neck and the thin satin pup-training one encircling their middle pup’s baby neck. He revises his opinion. Charles, in his expensive windbreaker and canvas chinos, is a traditionalist. Maybe Jacinta is too. It doesn’t make them any less kind, but Dean is wary now, a spark of panic that they’ll take him home with them if they learn how alone he really is.

“My Dad’s not here today. I like museums.” Dean speeds up his consumption of the peachy syrupy flakey goodness. 

“Are you promised, Dean?” Charles asks with his alpha voice, the one that demands fast answered truth.

Dean moistens his lips. Shakes his head, “No, Sir.”

“That is a shame.” Jacinta mutters sympathetically, patting the back of Dean’s hand.

“My parents arranged a match for my sister,” Charles easies back on the alphaness, maybe realizing he came on too strong. “Progressive of them, they stipulated twenty-one as the contract age. Attractive pup-loving omega like you, I was sure the reason you are unclaimed must be the same.”

Super. Not only do they think he is in need of an alpha, they also think he is under twenty-one. He’ll be delivered to the cop-station for safekeeping next, and that won’t work because the Sheriff knows his Dad isn’t around. 

He makes up a tale of errands to run, receives the kisses of each pup, and hides in the chapel until the afternoon ferry departs. 

It’s been a weird day so far. The chapel is cool but not cold. It’s quiet, peaceful, in a way that Dean hasn’t associated with churches and boneyards. Usually he is breaking open tombs and torching the contents. There is a plaque to Whitsunday Bopp. Dean risks being struck down by heavenly wrath to guffaw at the name. There is a more adult calligraphy version of the witch story in a frame. Rowan Emery was washed ashore. She dealt in profane curses and was the bane of the good folk of Gauntlet. Finally after a summer of drought and a fall of tempests, Whitsunday Bopp paid passage for her to the mainland, and God did rejoice that the heretic had been exiled from his blessed isle. For all the pious words, the tale reads like a pagan folk tale. There is no mention of missing omegas, summoning demons, or sucking souls dry. Dean whips his notebook out of his ass pocket. He makes notes for reference, and spends a while looking at names on funerary plates and grave markers, just in case he’s got to dig someone up later.

Back at the dock, Dean reaches John’s voicemail. Then he gets Sam’s roommate Brady again, who tells him Sam’s busy and to try again later. Dean shrugs it off, lamenting the stupidity of spending the last of his loose change connecting to Palo Alto.

He can’t face a return to the cabin yet. No TV and another night with his cauldron of drifting thoughts have lost their appeal. He’s gonna splurge on a bacon double cheeseburger or whatever this rock offers as equivalent.

Mac’s is surprisingly congenial. Shabby in a rustic way that summer tourists appreciate, fresh from their cinnamon topped lattes and silver service restaurants. The single sheet laminated evening menu is like an ode the cranberry, with everything from hot turkey sandwiches with cranberry jelly, to cranberry apple pies, and cranberry orange juice. The waitress is an older pup of the eponymous Mac, called June. She’s got curly bangs and a sparky attitude, all hands on hip. He pegs her as an alpha to be, but he could be wrong, the rich smells of food, beer and islanders mingling in his olfactory passages. She takes some kind of pity on him, tells him the cranberry is optional, and brings him a larger order of fries with his freaking mouthwatering burger, than he sees on the other tables with food.

Stomach pleasantly full, Dean decides to move to a bar stool. It’s harder for people to approach him at a table. A presumption that he is biding time for his alpha or family to join him, means civility forbids it, and Mac’s place is that. It might look scruffy but it is polite.

The aromas coming from the kitchen area are ridiculous. The swing doors are closed but bright light shines through two porthole windows. Dean takes a huge gulping inhalation on his way to hit the head. On the way back, June pushes backwards through the doors balancing three massive bowls of chowder. Dean’s head jerks as if pulled in that direction and he glimpses the back and side shoulders of the burly chef, moving at hectic but precise speed. As the doors swing back to position, his nose perks up. Warm cinnamon and ginger taffy he can place as cooked puddings, but that new shoe leather and salty earth is the same alpha that he caught a tendril of on his first night. Every fiber of Dean’s inner core tells him to go find the source of that delicious scent. It entices him to put a foot in the direction of the steamy kitchen. It pulls on his solar plexus as if a thread of golden light was seeping out of him seeking his mate. His omega brain wants, but Dean grinds his teeth. He convinces his stupid instincts to shut the fuck up. He won’t make a show of himself in this family friendly eatery. He is a rational, strong, hunter hunting on a freaking hunt. 

It takes his deaf-to-rationality heart a while to stop flapping kaboom kaboom, after he plunks his butt cheek on the well worn stool at Mac’s bar. The owner isn’t overly busy. The grizzled alpha with long sleeves of marine themed tattoos is manning the bar alone. He spares a few words for Dean, who learns nothing more than the assertion that no omega ever vanished from Mac’s bar. 

Dean Winchester prides himself on being thorough. Whatever else he might be, he’s not slapdash. Leaving Mac’s with the pleasant buzz of craft blond ale, he ducks straight into the other watering hole next door. 

Pool table in the corner with a circle of younger guys, mix of betas and alphas, catches Dean’s eyes straight off, like a homing instinct. If this case is a blow out, he lines up the location for a last night pool hustle. May as well go back to the mainland with extra bucks padding his money clip, and Dean knows that most alphas don’t think an omega would know one end of a cue from the other.

In size and condition, The Lookout is so different to Mac’s that Dean can’t believe they look similar from the outside. This joint is dark. There’s no background music or hum of happy voices. Dean’s hand comes away sticky when he rests it on a table. There are no families out for a meal. In fact, Dean makes a quick assessment, aside from one downcast slender dude in his mid-thirties sitting in the only corner booth seat with his skuzzy looking alpha, there are no other omegas in this bar. Another glance and Dean computes that there are no women either, no girlfriends, no muscle flexing alpha chicks at the pool table. Dean unconsciously pulls his jacket tighter as he walks to the counter.

“You legal?” greets the surly barkeep. 

Dean’s nose tells him the guy is beta, but he is built and wearing a leather vest as if he could be heading back to his biker chapter any day. He moistens his lips, digs around the inner pocket, and produces his Robert Plant license. The birth date is real. The element of truth makes it easier if he needs to use a fake ID for more than a quick interview.

“OK Robert, what’s your poison?” The smile is a thin veneer. 

Every instinct is screaming at Dean to get out. He listens to it, but he is a hunter. He won’t run. Hell, this crawling under his skin, pumping of fight or flight hormones, might mean the evil thing is here. Or maybe he is Gauntlet’s underbelly’s first look at fresh meat in weeks. He bets every sonvabitch and douchebag on the isle comes to The Lookout. The population can’t be that big, and if one of them saw anything ever, they aren’t the sort to be beating down Sheriff Bryson’s door. So Dean will stay alert. He’ll be prepared but he’s not fleeing like some kind of scaredy cat sissy.

“A beer. Bottle. No glass.” Dean won’t risk getting cooties from the glassware.

There is a small but loud voice in his hind brain telling him to get back to Mac’s, burst into the kitchen and hump against the meaty thigh of the short order cook. He shakes his head to dispel the need to turn tail. As he pulls out his money clip, he makes sure his shiv is where it’s meant to be. 

“I’ll get this.” It’s a demand, not a suggestion.

Dean cranes his neck. The alpha is bald on top but sporting a rats’ tail effect mullet. He smells of three day old fish and unwashed socks. Dean blocks his smell by holding his breath, which is enough distraction for the ugsome Neanderthal to take the beer from the counter. The guy is fast, well practiced, but Dean’s no greenhorn. He sees the folded paper baggie of white powder. Like a slight of hand magician Dean fumbles with the baton pass of the bottle. The beer goes down to the dirty stone flags in reverse, a lake of roofie mix spreading out. Dean is all apologies and insistence that he’s got to go, but Baldtop drags him back to the bar, plunks him on a stool that corners him against the back wall, and insists on paying for another. There’s no roofie this time, but all eyes are on them after their show. Dean bides his time. He makes use of the few minutes until he can make his escape to ask his suitor about the local scare story.

“Missing omegas?” The guy chuckles, all yellowed teeth and nicotine breath. “That‘s a good one. Don? Come over here. Pretty Boy’s asking about missing omegas.”

Dean stiffens. He sees Don Bryson extract himself from an alcove by the fire doors.

“Well look’ee here. We meet again.” Don’s all false charm.

Dean’s getting more and more of a feeling that he is the prey in a predator sandwich. He slips his hand into his pocket. The shiv is gone.

“Looking for this.” Baldtop smirks, holding it up.

Dean gulps. He is in the crapper. How is he going to talk his way out of this? He licks his lips.

“That’s right, Bitch, wet those rosy lips for us. Get ‘em all slick and ready.” Another voice says from behind Don.

Dean raises his hands, palms outward. “Hey, hey, dudes. I don’t know what you think, but I came in for a beer. But no harm done, ‘kay. I’m going to go.” 

He slips from the stool, takes one step to the side, before Don presses his whopping alpha body against Dean, squashing him full force against the wall.

“I don’t think so.”

 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSPN++++++++++++++++++++++++++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Sunday, I’ll post the next chapter, which is the dark before the light. I will put warnings at the beginning. The tag of attempted rape/non-con remains valid.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Please heed the warnings. If you would be triggered by any of the below, but would like to continue with the story, firstly be reassured that there are no more such occurrences in later chapters. Secondly, warnings do NOT apply to the final 930 words, from the paragraph that begins “Dean sags”. If you wish, you could CTRL+F to find that point.
> 
> WARNINGS:  
> Sexual violence.  
> Attempted Rape.  
> Abusive threatening language.  
> Non consensual groping, bondage, bukkake and humiliation

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSPN+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

If Dean could turn back time, he’d tell himself never to enter The Lookout. Not that he’d listen when he is in bloodhound mode on a hunt. He could smack himself sideways for not heeding his own screaming instincts. No point in lamentations when he’s got a jam to get out of. 

Don Bryson’s vast bulk is currently preventing any moves, but Dean is hyper-alert. He’s got routes to the fire exit, side door, storeroom and restrooms sketched out with the geometric side of his brain that rakes in the bucks at pool. The flies in the ointment are the scum of Gauntlet, currently forming a human barrier. 

Taking a risk is the only option. Dean steels his nerve, curls his fingers and punches for Don’s bare throat. 

His knuckles hit the palm of Don’s hand which has appeared out of nowhere. Don squeezes until Dean hisses in pain, all the time tutting, “No, no, little one, none of that now.”

Dean’s next bright idea is a knee to Don’s goolies, but that’s been anticipated. There is not an inch to move. Instead Don’s arm lodges across his throat, pinning him, choking his air supply until white spots appear. When the alpha eases back, Dean gulps for precious air.

“Behave.”

Dean blinks, sucks air, nods because the threat of a crushed windpipe is incentive to hold fire until a better moment.

“If he was mine, I’d put a shock collar on him, train him up.” A voice hisses from the back of the group, evoking laughter and nods of consideration from the rest and an icy shiver from Dean.

A skinny beta in dirty polyester tracksuit reaches out to place a clammy hand on Dean’s forehead, pushing back into his hair. He can’t turn his head away. Don pokes his fingers into Dean’s cheeks holding him steady.

Skinny sneers, eyes calculating, already chubbing in his pants, sidling closer, boxing Dean in. “I can tell. This one’s a slut. Bet he’ll come when he’s split open on two rock hard cocks with Abe's fat knot shutting off his throat.”

“No.” Dean wheezes, hoarse from the assault on his airways. “You don’t want to do this.”

Dean sees through a gap. His eyes beseech for help but the only movement is the older alpha hustling his omega out of the joint. The door swings closed on that source of aid. 

The voices come thick and fast. One douchebag speaks over the other.

“But we do,” Baldtop snorts. “Wanna mark you up so no one else will want your sorry weeping ass.”

“And plug you with alpha dick so much you’ll be crapping spunk for a week.”

“Omega’s love that, being filled and bred, all they are good for, hanging off an alpha knot.”

“If he lives up to his potential,” another chortles, “we could keep him as our claimed bitch, gagged and plugged in the storeroom.”

Dean violently shakes his head, mouths “No.”

He opens his eyes to Baldtop approaching as Don steps back. The stinky alpha has a length of string, a kind of frayed old twine. He holds it in his fist as he uses the other hand to help Don and Skinny drag Dean to the pool table. There’s no opportunity to run. Three hands pull at his threads. They rip his jacket from his shoulders. The barkeep is there with a long knife, which he uses to cut off Dean’s layers until he is bare from the waist up. His cheek is pressed onto the worn felt. He squirms and resists as much as he dares, still repeating his ‘no’ in the vain hope they’ll listen. Someone undoes his buckle and zipper and pulls his pants to swim around his ankles, caught on his boots. 

This is fucking happening. He can’t see an out. He begins to pray wordlessly that he’ll survive, that there’ll be an act of God like a lightning strike or a sudden plague of frogs. He’d willingly accept a tidal wave that would drown them all, Dean included.

Skinny and the barkeep’s knuckles are holding him down, rim of the pool table digging into his belly. Loathsome alphas butt heads about who gets to rape him first. 

Out of his peripheral vision Dean sees that Baldtop is making a noose. If this is lynch-an-omega night, Dean’s thankful that this imbecile didn’t get the memo about weight bearing loads. When the others notice the trawlerman’s handiwork there are a few whoops of praise and dry chuckles. Dean kicks and struggles anew as they place the thin rope over his head, scraping his nose and avoiding his bite as he tries to break it with his teeth. This isn’t a game of live action Hangman. It’s a leash. It burns his already bruised windpipe as they drag him, all the time laughing at his gait with his pants around his ankles, pulling him and taunting him through the blackened fire doors and out to a junk and empties filled yard. 

It’s dark, faint light from the open fire doors and a bulging moon, making the back lot eerie with shadows. The cold prickles Dean’s skin into gooseflesh. There is a clanging noise. Someone’s knocked over beer bottles. Dean twists his head towards the back of the other bar, in hopes there are windows or entry points from which his attackers might be spotted. It’s dead over there. His heart sinks another notch.

“Tie him down,” The barkeep growls.

Dean opens his mouth, fills his lungs with night air, and prepares to holler loud enough to wake every decent citizen of Gaunt. A line of fire burns his arm. He’s been cut with his own shiv.

“You make anything louder than a hushed beg, or a slutty moan while I plow your ass, your pointless balls will be sliced, diced and fed down your gullet.”

Dean frantically nods his agreement. He believes these cockroaches would do it. He bites down his urge to scream as his arms are stretched too far. They only bother removing one boot to get his denim restraint out of the way. They tie his legs wide with rough hands and thicker rope. He is sideways over an old urine odorous rat chewed wide seat.

Motion catches his vision. The bartender’s got his cock out, nothing else. He is fully dressed, just pumping his length, getting off on Dean being manhandled and exposed. He grunts his pleasure, “Slick for me yet, Robert? Because I’m gonna drive this good thing into your lily white ass.”

“Robert?” A hulking beta, who’s been in the background, steps up. “I overheard him telling a family down at the museum coffee place that his name is Dean and he was running errands for his Pa.”

Baldtop’s ugly mug and malodorous wheezing breath is in his face. Glaring into Dean’s eyes, and with full on Alpha, he demands, “Your real name, Omega, now.”

It forces its way out of his mouth like bilious puke, “D – D – Dean.”

Don hoots. “He’s a false lying slut, this one. On vacation? Waiting for his Alpha-Dad? No one believes a liar...” He grabs Dean by his short strands of hair, scratching his scalp and forcing his head back, “… and nobody is going to believe you didn’t want this, because you do want it. Bucking here like a bitch in heat.”

Dean’s been struggling, trying to find some give in his bonds. Did that look like he was asking to be knotted? He takes stock while the foul conversation continues above him. He doesn’t want this. They’ll never convince him that he does. He wonders what they are waiting for. Maybe they had to wait for the roofie to kick in with their last victim. He tries to remember that all the memory wiped omegas turned up ‘unharmed’ but his traitorous brain supplies that they might be the only ones who survived.

“Unmated. Unwanted more like,” the hoarse voice taunts. “But don’t worry, we’ll take you. Take you hard and deep.”

“Did Daddy leave you on the side of the road like a box of mangy puppies?” 

That one cuts a bit close to the truth. Dean winces, remembers he’s got to check in with John tomorrow, wishes he and his Dad had tackled this hunt as a team.

“Maybe you struck out on your own? Huh, Dean? Trying to make it as a slick-whore? Well, sorry to disappoint, we don’t pay, we take.”

“Hit it dead on, Abe. He must be trade,” one of them adds casually, “If he was respectable he’d have gone to Mac’s.”

“Hey Larry!” The barkeep growls, “I run a respectable house.”

It’s the first round of mocking laughter not directed at Dean.

“Y’all think it’s time he tasted us?” Abe’s eager voice asks.

The hand on his jaw is grimy and nicotine sour. Don forces his mouth open by pressing on his jaw hinges while another pinches his nose. All he can see are bits of alpha arms and hands until Don spits into his mouth. He gags but his lips are pressed punishingly closed, while a palm strokes his throat until he swallows. He squeezes his eyes tight but his ears can hear their gutter words.

“You got a taste of me. A preview,” Don licks a stripe along Dean’s cheek, “Going to fill you up every which way.”

Dean almost wishes he’d allowed himself to be roofied. Someone else is taunting that they won’t knot him, wouldn’t want to be tied to a slutty ass like Dean’s needy hole.

“We should hogtie it.” The hoarse voiced alpha suggests. “Ease of access, guys.”

Dean tries to kick against his captors again. If they hogtie him, he’ll lose the small hope of escape by slipping his bonds. His head is jerked back by the wire thin noose. Eyes wide, he sees Skinny sneering down at him, before a kiss is forced that churns Dean’s stomach, makes him want to bite down on the thick slimy tongue invading his mouth, but he values his balls too much.

“I think little Piggy’d like that,” Don reappears to run a rough thumb over Dean’s lips. He whispers for Dean’s ears only, “These lips are gonna be bruised up soon, but I’m taking first dibs, gonna hit the back of your throat and fill your belly with my come, you’re gonna drink down every drop, while Larry shoots his load up your slutty ass. Nod if you understand me.”

Dean can hardly move with the hold of Don’s hand in his hair but he does his best to bob his head. He can see the built beta who ratted out his name, head thrown back, inches away from coming, and then a spray of hot loathsome nasty spend decorates Dean’s back. He can feel it slipping down his spine. He wants to vomit.

“Can’t wait.” The hoarse one snarls. That must be Larry. “We can tie him in all kinds of knots after. I’m going in.”

There is the sound of a zipper, vast spanning hands wrap around his sides, positioning him, digging into his hips. Dean bucks his hips, trying to force the guy off, but is met with cackles of how eager he is to be knotted. He is shaking his head so hard that Don chuckles about having to dance to slot his cock between the omega’s plump lips.

Dean barely registered the first shout from beyond the circling hyenas, can’t parse where the sudden flood of bright outdoor light has come from.

“I said HEY.” An alpha roars. “What the fuck are you dumb knotheads doing? That omega doesn’t look like a willing participant to me?”

“Fuck off, Benny. Mind your own beeswax.” Don shoves Larry to the side, as he yells back to the interrupter.

“Your Pa know what you get up to when his back’s turned?”

“We said Fuck Off. Turn around and go back into your kitchen, Lafitte.”

“Well, boys. I can’t do that.” There is a deadly threat in the new alpha’s tone. “I could step back inside, I guess. I could call on Mac, and Geoff, and ask June to disturb the sheriff.”

“Bastard.” Larry throws in Benny’s direction.

Hands knead into Dean’s butt cheeks. Dean cringes as he can feel his body begin to betray him at the last. His hole twitches in terrible anticipation. He clenches it, missing the semantics of the taunt Don adds loud enough for everyone to catch.

“Don’t you fucking dare, Don Bryson!” Booms at multiple decibel volume.

“Shut your face, Lafitte.” Don roars back as he bumps his hard on against Dean’s crack.

“You think one omega’s worth a trip to the mainland in handcuffs?”

“You want him, Lafitte? Come get him.” Baldtop bellows.

Dean’s manages to maneuver his neck towards the back of Mac’s again. He can’t see his potential rescuer. The beam from Mac’s security lighting disguises him as a shadow. 

For the blink of an eye, Dean is convinced he is imagining, hallucinating, that his brain got oxygen deprived. But then, there is a blur of violence. Heads snap back. Fists fly. Copper blood odor tells Dean that a nose has been broken. Mac’s voice roars from his property, and then the not-so-brave alpha and beta slimeballs scatter. They break apart like sheep or panicked lemmings, dashing back through the bar, leaping over the low wall, barreling through the rear gate.

Dean sags. The adrenalin leeches from his body. He is spent, relieved and embarrassingly naked. 

“You got this Lafitte? You need me over there?” Mac’s voice bellows.

“Naw, Brother. Go back to the patrons. The bottom feeding cowards have split.” The alpha sounds winded, as if he was on the receiving end of a few blows, but the aggression is gone from his voice. 

A warm hand tenderly strokes Dean’s flank. Large but gentle fingers ease the makeshift noose collar from his sore neck. His ankles are freed. All the time a wonderful soothing tone mutters comfort. A deep southern timbre coos how good Dean is, how he is safe, how everything will be alright. Dean melts into it. He wants that voice to wrap around him so he is the filing in a burrito of those words. He doesn’t know he is crying like a lost pup until an honest to god hankie wipes away disgusting traces of spittle along with Dean’s own salty wetness.

“They are gone, Cher.” 

Benny lifts Dean off the rotting seat. He plunks himself in the dirt and gathers Dean into his chest. The alpha rips open his white work jacket and rents apart the wife-beater underneath. The omega curls fetal, trying to fit all his bruised body onto Benny’s lap, trying to find refuge in the offered skin, noses into the alpha’s chest hair with small noises in the back of his throat. Dean finally gets to fill the alveoli of his lungs with the goodness and divine scent of alpha perfected.

He noses into skin dampened by the perspiration of work and battle. He’ll gather his wits and his self respect together in a moment, but right now, Dean buries himself in the crook of the alpha’s neck. Salt, suede, soil, cinnamon, and soft stewed sweet apples mingle, comfort, and draw him in. He cleaves to Benny Lafitte like an omega tentacle monster feeding his essence with all the right stuff.

“’m not clingy.” Dean mutters, finally becoming aware of the impression he’s making.

Benny chuckles. Good golly miss molly, that belly laugh is doing things to Dean’s brain, like turning it to mush. 

“m not weak,” Dean mumbles, trying to counter what he is certain must be overwhelming evidence.

Benny tries to ease Dean back so he can meet his eyes, but Dean can’t look up, can’t face seeing his alpha’s eyes for the first time when they are clouded in disappointment. A hand softly tilts Dean’s head, brushing his cheek against a neatly trimmed beard. 

“Please, Sugar, would you see me?”

The plea is heartfelt, genuine and delivered in a slow Cajun accent. Dean blinks, lets his pupils adjust, and he sees him. Immediately Dean finds him attractive, which is sort of neat, seeing that Benny’s scent is pure Mate. The alpha’s shining blue eyes are kind, transmitting sympathy rather than condemnation. His face is full and generous, with smile lines and eye crinkles. Dean licks his chapped and sore lips, picturing meeting Benny’s slightly parted upturned smile.

“Hi.” Benny’s smile broadens. He removes the hand that was stroking Dean’s side to offer it, “Benny Lafitte, alpha out of Louisiana.”

Dean shakes his head with amusement. He is covered in the spunk of his attackers, unclothed, bruised and might be in a kind of shock. It’s not how he ever fantasized meeting a potential mate. He takes the proffered hand. Benny’s palm warms his. Dean smirks. 

“Dean. Dean Winchester, omega out of everywhere and nowhere, all sorts of trouble.”

A finger presses tenderly on his surprised O-shaped mouth. 

“Shush now, Darlin’. None of that deprecating talk. It makes me all sorts of not amused. And driving off that scum? No trouble at all. It was my pleasure.” 

Benny’s voice rumbles from the alpha’s chest into Dean’s. 

“’Kay,” Dean manages, unable to believe this dude. He doesn’t know Dean and all the cluster fucks he is ground zero for, but Dean doesn’t want to annoy by enlightening the alpha. He’d prefer to be dressed for that conversation. His internal eyebrows rise at the presumption that he’ll be around for any such talk. 

“How about I get you home Dean? You wanna shower? Warm clothes?”

Dean flinches. He must stink. However Benny doesn’t let him jump away. He pulls him closer for a hug and more rubbing, of his back this time. Keep this up and Dean will be so covered by Benny’s scent that he won’t want to shower. 

“I’ll bring you back to mine, OK? Cher?”

Dean nods. He should go back to the cabin, but heck, he doesn’t want to go where Don Bryson knows he is staying. He’d be awake and alert all night, shotgun propped and ready to shoot. 

“You good?” Benny checks.

Dean is as far from good as a Satanist mid virgin sacrifice, but he understands and nods. He’s not expecting for his jeans to be pushed up as far as his buttocks. He watches amazed as Benny plays Prince Charming to fit Dean’s lost boot un-laced onto his foot. Then he is picked up like a newlywed and carried out of the yard. June dashes out with a blanket to cover him. He tucks into Benny’s chest. Dean adjusts, wrapping his legs around Benny’s waist for security and comfort.

“Wish I’d gone into the kitchen,” Dean whispers to the night, thinking he could have had this without all the intervening hell.

“Huh, Sugar?”

“It’s nice,” Dean admits, sinking into Benny, resting his head on a soft shoulder, allowing his alpha to take him home.


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Throws balls of cotton candy angsty fluff at you and runs away*

+++++++++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSPN++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

Dean guesses the reason Benny sets him down, braced against the side wall of a recessed wooden door, is to get it unlocked and opened. They have halted at the most northerly cabin of those that curve along Inner Cove. Only the abandoned ruin of a 19th Century coastguard station prevents this small building from being the final one Dean would pass before guiding Caleb’s boat round Toe Point. Benny has carried him along a coastal path, but Dean figures there is another track that rises to the hill top, which would explain how he got that tantalizing scent of Benny on his first night. 

Distracted by his thoughts, Dean registers that the cabin is sparsely furnished and dark. He is guided to a snug bathroom that contains a shower, cracked porcelain basin, and museum piece toilet with a ceiling high tank and a pull chain flush. He’s gawping at the worn wood toggle and chain when he hears shower spray hitting tiles behind him. 

“Sugar?” Benny’s warm tone draws Dean’s attention, “There’s body wash and shampoo on the shelf. Take your time. I’ll be right outside.”

Dean nods. His lips twitch upwards in gratitude for the refuge and the privacy. He strips off soiled jeans and boots. He wants to burn them. He’ll never wear them again. 

The water runs cold before Dean feels that his skin has been scrubbed clean enough. The long cut on his arm has bled watered pink. He spits repeatedly under the spray trying to dispel the taste of the tongue that violated his mouth and the glob of Don Bryson’s saliva. When he emerges, there are a couple of threadbare towels waiting. They are no worse than motel supplies, and Dean figures Benny too alpha for fabric softener. Before he dries off, Dean sticks two fingers down his throat. His weak omega gag reflex needs the aid of clenched and rolled stomach muscles combined with the visceral memory of being held down and his throat being rubbed to swallow the spittle. It is enough. Everything comes up, including the partial digested delicious burger and fries Benny’s hand had made in Mac’s kitchen. 

Was that only a couple of hours ago?

He really should be going once he has cleaned up. He doesn’t want to impose on the kindness of Benny. He needs to remember that he is a strong capable hunter who has posed as a beta for years. He needs to suck it up and act like the man his Dad always wanted him to be.

Maybe he can ask Benny for some clothes. He’ll bring them back. 

Dean helps himself to a new toothbrush from a half empty multipack. He brushes his tongue and hard palate too. He gargles, spits, gargles, spits, repeats. He wants every trace of those sonsabitches out of his body.

When he emerges, Benny has changed into long striped PJs. The cabin is lit and a wood burning stove throws out comfortable low heat. Sparse was an accurate first impression. There is a rickety table and couple of hard chairs. Two armchairs, with rips that reveal horsehair tufts, stand to each side of the stove. The so-called kitchen area has a two ring burner, a microwave, and a half refrigerator next to a big old sink with faucets that look like mangled seahorses. 

Benny’s on one of the kitchen chairs. He’s got a bowl, cotton balls, gauze and tape all laid out ready to dress Dean’s arm. 

Part of Dean wants to act like a macho beta, shrug off the wound. He has self inflicted worse with silver knives to prove he’s not a shifter. 

When Benny smiles, all eye crinkles and honest joy to see a freshly showered Dean standing on his own two feet, the omega can’t deny him the gesture of caretaking. He sits on the other chair, close enough to offer his arm. Benny is careful with the antibacterial wash. He is tender as he wipes, covers and tapes up the dressing. Dean watches every move. 

There is something special about this act of an alpha taking care of an omega. Dean’s heard of it, in Sex-Ed classes, second hand from guys in relationships, but he never really believed it. In his experience, the omega’s duty is to take care of his mate, his family, those he cares about. The alpha provides and shelters. He was too young when his Mom died to know if his parents’ mating had this dynamic. Was John tender and kind with her? Dean hopes so.

Benny clears away his first aid supplies. He wonders if Dean is thirsty.

Dean shakes his head. He’d gulped shower water and he doesn’t like the way toothpaste muddies the taste of anything except a morning coffee.

“I only got one spare set,” Benny mumbles as he hands over a plain beige sleep tee with brown plaid drawstring PJ bottoms.

“’s good.” Dean affirms, “Thanks, man.”

He hangs Benny’s towel over the bar of the shower curtain for want of anywhere better. The PJs are worn soft and imbued with Benny’s alpha musk. A sense of security settles over Dean as he dons them. He shuffles out, suddenly unsure. Without conscious thought, he wraps his arms around his torso, pulling the oversized material into folds of comforting layers.

Benny cocks his head towards the queen bed in the far corner of the single roomed cabin. Dean plunks his butt down. It sinks into the soft bed, too yielding to be a decent mattress. Dean knows because he’s sampled all sorts. Before he can think that it might be insulting to his host, his rescuer, Dean noses into the flannel bottom sheet, checking for damp. He gets a blast of Benny. It provokes strange incomprehensible reactions, like a strong craving to touch the source and a desire never to stray from it. 

Craning his neck at the shuffling sound of motion, Dean sees the alpha scattering a couple of blankets near the outer wall. His jaw drops. This guy has taken a disheveled omega into his home. No way can Dean put him out of his own bed, and he selfishly wants the alpha close. 

Dean mewls, hand outstretched, and then winces at the sound that has just come out of his own mouth. He doesn’t want to be needy. On the other hand he feels safer in Benny’s arms. Dean is all kinds of conflicted, but luckily Benny responds to the wordless request. He brings one of the nest blankets to add an extra layer against any chill draft.

“Hey Sugar, you let Benny hold you here. I’m here, Darlin’. It’s all fine.” Benny mutters the words, low and sweet into Dean’s ear. He moves a pliant Dean to be the little spoon. “I woulda been dandy against the wall.”

Dean grunts a negative. He can feel Benny’s internal laughter.

“Often slept in the back of my old van.”

“I hear ya,” Dean whispers into the dark, “Kipped in my Impala too many times to tell you.”

Benny makes a hum of curiosity.

“’67 Chevy Impala, black as night, a beauty,” Dean enthuses. Talking about his Baby always cheers him. He ought to clarify. “It’s my Alpha-Dad’s car really, y’know, on the paperwork, but he’s got this tank of a truck now.”

“You drive to the ferry?”

“Yeah. She’s parked in the long term lot. Where are your wheels?” 

Benny clicks his tongue ruefully, “The great salvage yard in the sky, Brother. She got me close. I hitchhiked the final score of miles. Lucky this place is boats only.”

There is a story there. Dean’s eyes are drooping. He shelves any questions for the morning. He thinks he hears Benny apologizing that his living accommodation is not much and not his property. He remembers that he was going to leave after his shower, but somehow he forgot. Dean falls asleep hoping that he can still trust his nose on a night that made him doubt his decision making.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSPN++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Dim winter daylight greets Dean when he blinks awake. He is groggy and slow to come to full awareness. Normally he’s hyper alert, for threats, for John, for motel owners… His head is muzzy, arm itches, limbs ache, shoulders feel like someone tried to dislocate them. It comes back to him in one wallop. He feels sick, scrambles from the bed, leaving the comforting alpha body heat behind, dives for the toilet bowl and barfs.

They nearly… one of them could have knotted… he could have been… 

He barfs clear fluid, then yellow tinged bile.

A cool flannel dabs at the back of his heated neck. Benny is on his knees, sideways in the confined space. The cloth wipes Dean’s chin, his lips. It is turned round to clear the beads of perspiration from his brow.

It’s not quite believable to Dean, head hung over Benny’s toilet decorating it in puke, that the alpha has sunk to his knees, joining him on the floor to offer further kindness. 

“Come back to bed. It’s early yet, Darlin’,” Benny implores, aiding Dean to his foal like legs.

“I’m Bambi,” Dean laughs, slightly hysterical.

“Sure you are,” Benny soothes, “Bed, my Deer.”

“You’re hilarious.” Dean pokes the alpha’s girth with his elbow.

Benny makes a pleased huff. Dean’s mood rises further.

Under tossed bed covers, they snuggle together. Dean might tell himself it’s the coldest morning yet on the island, but he knows that is denial. He’s never understood deep in his bones, just how important touch was. His Dad isn’t a touchy feely type, and once Sam hit his teens he didn’t want to be coddled anymore. Dean hoarded nights that he and Sam shared a bed, or when his brother would score a goal or an A, then fly into Dean’s arms for a celebratory hug. When he was ‘beta-Dean’ he might skip out of a beta girl or guy’s apartment in the early hours, but not until he’d lain with them in the quiet stillness of the night. Maybe he was craving this, maybe he’d shut off this side, sacrificed it to be all that his Dad and little brother needed. Dean’s brain hurts. Over-thinking manifests as tense muscles, which cause Benny’s arm to stretch down, stroking Dean’s hip and thigh, as if he is a cat. Dean doesn’t relax immediately, but his mind stills. He doesn’t fall back to sleep, rather into that half-awake, edge of aware relaxation. He doesn’t analyze it, or dwell on why.

An indeterminate amount of time later, Benny extracts himself gently from Dean’s spider limbs. Any momentary panic of being left alone is quelled by normal morning sounds from the bathroom. 

When Dean opens his eyes again, Benny is getting dressed, plucking his clothes from where they are strewn across the floor. Dean watches. When Benny turns his back, Dean pervs at his fine ass and wide shoulders. Benny wears god-damned suspenders. Dean aches to twang them against the alpha’s chest, see what they feel like under his fingers before wrenching them off and jumping Benny’s bones. A flush of heat rises up Dean’s body. He can scent his own slick. His traitorous cock twitches. It’s just as well that a cable knit midnight blue sweater goes over Benny’s undershirt.

“Breakfast?”

Dean startles. He can feel his eyes widen. “Ahem, yeah, uh, that’d be good. I mean, thanks.”

 _Geez, Dean, aim for suave._ He rolls his eyes. Benny hasn’t noticed or presumes Dean is incoherent first thing in the morning. 

“You want a hand?” Dean offers, swinging his legs from under the layers of blankets.

“Sure thing,” Benny freaking beams, all white teeth and pleased glow. “I got a few eggs. Would you whip ‘em up? You like mushrooms, shallot, bell pepper? I was thinkin’ of halving a big omelet?”

“Sounds peachy.” 

Dean is directed to a half-dresser drawer. For all that the kitchen area is clearly made for a single occupant, Benny’s got a considerable selection of silicone utensils. Underneath in the cabinet there are several bowls to choose between. There is brown freckled egg in the open carton. Dean huffs with a surreal thought that he is the (bad?) egg that Benny’s let into his home. Dean’s cheer at the sight of a double yolk gets Benny spinning round from slicing mushrooms to meet Dean’s high five.

“Double yolk, Man. That’s lucky.” Dean dampens his burst of delight, realizing he might look insane. “My baby bro and I’d say that, or I made it up to get him to eat his eggs when he was little…”

“I like it.” Benny grins. “Best eggs in New England. The Shields family…”

“Oh, Jonah.” Dean blurts before thinking.

“Yeah, Sugar. You met Jonah? His alpha Geoff is a good man. In the blinkered image I’d built up of Gauntlet, he was the type of alpha I’d convinced myself populated this isle.” Benny’s head dips, ruefully shakes.

Dean puts down the red silicone whisk. He closes the two paces between them, risks wrapping his arms around Benny’s waist, rests his head between Benny’s shoulder blades. “You’re here.”

Benny chuffs a laugh at that. Dean loosens his hold to allow the alpha to turn, but doesn’t let go. Benny tilts Dean’s chin up, meets smile with smile.

“So are you, Cher.”

A caste kiss is pressed to Dean’s chapped and bitten lips. The little devil inside Dean wants to poke his tongue out, lick and taste, change it to a deep tangle of tongue and clacking of teeth, but he refrains. He puckers slightly, communicating that he is onboard. Two more brief caresses are shared. 

The moment ends. There is butter for the deep heavy skillet, salt and pepper to be forked through the egg. Benny cooks the savory fillings slow, pours the egg in next. Dean stands beside, watches the chef’s practiced motions. Water is heated for coffee. There is a notch of cheddar cheese in the fridge. Benny doesn’t bother with the grater, he chops it into tiny cubes that Dean is sure have some fancy French name. The cheese is scattered, omelet folded, slid onto a large plate, and spilt down the middle.

Dean makes wordless noises of appreciation. He tries to remember to eat with his mouth closed, but the omelet is so damn fluffy. 

“It warmed my bones to see you enjoy my simple fare,” Benny comments as he clears their plates. 

“You can cook like that for me every morning.” Dean’s mouth runs away with him. He is shocked when his ears pick up what his larynx has spewed. He bites down on his lip, prepares to back track, freaking grovel to excuse his presumptiveness.

He lifts his apprehensive eyes, expecting censure or a cold veil to have fallen. Instead Benny is looking at him as if Dean just hung the moon.

“Mon Cher, it would be my honor.” Benny actually chokes up as Dean stares. “You, my mate…”

He said the four-letter-M-word. It isn’t out of left field. Dean’s lungs have been blessedly filled with Mate-Mine-Alpha. It’s the impossible dream, the one Dean shelved. It’s not like in the movies where the mates-to-be court and glow and overcome engineered obstacles before declaring their love to all and sundry. It’s not a fairy tale where Dean lost his shoe at a ball. It’s not like porn either, where an alpha and an omega can’t keep their paws off each other and knot before they exchange names. 

“Mate.” Dean repeats.

“I’m no Rockefeller, Dean. And I’m sure it’s all kinds of inappropriate to be talking about this…” Benny swallows hard, “…this morning after what has happened. But I’d like to get to know you, and I believe you are my mate.”

Dean isn’t sure what to say back to that. He takes few moments to comprehend every individual word. When he parcels them back together, he gathers he had been proposed to. He titters softly, offers a smile and an extended hand. He stands to meet Benny, wraps his arms around him and speaks to his collar bone.

“I’d like to get to know you too, Alpha.”

“You don’t gotta call me ‘Alpha’. Name’s Benny.”

Dean smirks, “Okay Alpha.”

Benny hums. “I see. Gonna be like that then?”

“Uh-huh Alpha,” Dean agrees, the teasing lifting his tone and his mood.

Their tender moment is interrupted by a demanding rhythm of knocks on the door. Benny moves with great reluctance. His hand trails the sleeve of the sleep tee on Dean’s arm. 

The alpha twitches the curtain of the front window and sighs. He turns back to Dean with a cloud over his features.

“It’s Sheriff Bryson.”

Every muscle in Dean’s body tenses. He has done nothing wrong. He’s not even desecrated a grave, yet. 

“I gotta let him in.” Benny says apologetically.

Dean nods. His throat has tightened. He seeks his game face, fights to find his hunter training.

The tall older lawman nods to his fellow alpha and greets him with a curt good morning as he crosses the threshold.

Benny’s reply is equally terse.

“I heard reports of an altercation.” The cop removes his hat. He scratches his bald plate in a way that transmits to Dean that the dude knows exactly what went down.

“An altercation?” Benny parrots.

“Abe Littman’s got a broken nose.”

Dean gives an internal cheer.

Benny nods. The set of his shoulders shows that he is proud that he caught one of the dickwads good.

“You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you Alpha Lafitte?”

“I know that I intervened to prevent a gang rape last night.”

Dean is stony faced. The plain speaking doesn’t faze him. He’s pumping for Benny to throw the truth into the old lawman’s face. However the sheriff balks at Benny’s blunt speaking. He holds up one hand like a traffic cop. 

“Now, Alpha Lafitte. That’s a strong accusation you’re making.”

Benny grunts in acknowledgment. Dean slips his hand into Benny’s back pocket, stays by his side.

Benny stands taller. “I’m telling you, Bryson, that if I hadn’t come out to dump my fryer oil, then you might be investigating a rape, maybe a rape/murder, this morning.”

“I deal in facts.” The Sheriff juts his chin. “Fact is, I got reports that some fun verged on the wild side, and you flew at The Lookout boys like a man possessed.”

“Fun?” Dean chokes in disbelief. “They tried to drug me. They tied me down. They took my clothes, and would have taken…”

Benny’s growl commences when Dean mentions the drug.

“The boys say it was consensual. The unaccompanied omega came into the bar, already having consumed alcohol, looking for a good time. That he stayed and imbibed further beers. They say the omega had been telling porkies around Gaunt. That he was more than willing.”

“I’m right fucking here.” Dean seethes. 

Benny’s arm pulls him in closer. “They had tied Dean down. How is that consensual?”

The sheriff’s sneer almost transmits his thoughts of kinky omega sluts. The cop steps forward and takes Dean’s wallet, money clip, amulet and notebook out of his pocket. He doesn’t hand them over, rather sets them on the table. He taps the dark leather of the wallet with his pointer finger. 

“Omega Robert Plant, age 23, Beta Brian May, age 22, Omega Dean Winchester, 23, and a credit card for Ming Gordon.” The sheriff’s mouth is a thin line. 

As he reaches for the amulet and slips it over his head, Dean experiences relief that his FBI and Ranger IDs are back at Caleb’s cabin and weren’t found scattered on the dive bar floor. 

“I don’t know what sort of game you are playing, Omega. But we don’t take kindly to shady characters here.”

Dean drops his eyes and gives a well practiced line, “Travelling on my own I gotta be careful.”

Bryson’s snort of disbelief is lost under Benny’s exclamation, “A couple of fake IDs are serious, but rape is fine then?”

“Alpha Lafitte! I believe we established there was no such offence committed.” He directs his attention to Dean again, “Which one if any is real? You name? Age? Responsible Alpha?”

There is no arguing with the authoritative demand. Although Dean can sense the prickle of rising aggression from Benny, he knows both that you have to pick your battles, and that the command is drawing the answer out of his mouth.

“Dean Winchester, 23, My Dad John Winchester.”

Bryson flicks open Dean’s wallet, extracts the two other cards and the Ming Gordon Amex. He nods in satisfaction. 

“Until your father arrives, I recommended you be more circumspect in your behavior.” 

Dean seethes alongside Benny who is almost shaking with contained rage. 

“Don especially wants to thank you Benny, for stepping in before things got out of hand.”

“Bullshit.” Dean and Benny hiss in unison.

“Can we be reasonable and logical here? You want me to round up our trawelermen, barkeep, volunteer firefighters, water taxi men and young bucks?”

“Yes.” Benny growls.

The sheriff spreads his palms like a politician seeking favor, “The boys are sorry.”

“They can stick their apologies up the proverbial.” Benny spits with built up venom.

“They assaulted me,” Dean stares straight at the older alpha, daring him to deny it.

“It is your word against theirs, Omega.”

That’s the rub. Dean bets they are all over in Don Bryson’s house cooking up a tale, creating matching stories, and exchanging alibis.

“Listen,” The sheriff continues. “Abe and the others with the marks of your fists and teeth will drop any allegations against you, Alpha Lafitte, if this can all be tidied away. No reports of identify fraud or affray.”

“Out-fucking-rageous.” Benny fumes. “I’ll support you all the way to the damned Supreme Court, Dean. It’s your call.”

Dean sucks his lower lip, chews on his flesh. He came here to protect other omegas. The whole reason he is on the isle is to prevent more young guys going missing. He wonders if there ever was a real hunt on Gauntlet. Maybe this was always a place of unspoken omega attacks. On the other hand, Dean’s hunter-savvy about his rights and the law. Normally from the other side of the fence, coming to bail his Dad out of local lockups, knowing how long he can be held for breaking and entry of shambled haunted buildings. He can imagine the Grand Jury’s questions. He’d had a couple of beers. He didn’t run out the door of The Lookout. He wasn’t breached. There are no witnesses to testify for the prosecution until the very end. It’s not a solid case. Dean can’t be the poster boy for the ACLU’s omega rights campaign, can’t be the center of a media shit-storm. The very first things that would happen are a medical exam, a statement… which require John Winchester’s consent and presence.

He’s not giving up. He’ll work the case to the bone. He’ll make sure there isn’t a monster of the supernatural variety. Then he’ll report to John. If the only monsters are human, then they’ll deal with that too. Bobby has lots of contacts. John is the bomb on sneaky underhand cons. It won’t be the first time that in the Winchester’s wake a tax audit commenced out of the blue, or a rake of bank accounts got emptied by credit card fraud. Dean’s preference for Gauntlet is the satisfaction of knowing the real feds could show up on an anonymous tip about omega disappearances.

Before he can agree, Dean is driven to ask.

“What about the others? What about the omegas who were never found?”

The sheriff looks at him as if Dean has grown an extra head, “What are you talking about?”

“The disappeared.” Dean challenges. “All down the years.”

“I don’t know what tourist stories they’ve been feeding you, Omega, but since I moved here with my mate and sons five years past, there have been no missing persons of any gender, aside from a few silly boys who stayed out overnight and caught chills.”

“Oh,” Dean’s mouth remains open. The sheriff is sincere. Dean would bet a year’s supply of bacon cheese burgers on it.

“Are you coming to the station to file a complaint?” Bryson’s question is verging on a snarl.

Dean shakes his head painstakingly slowly. 

“You sure, Darlin’?” Benny rumbles.

“They’ll stay out of my sight?” Dean checks assertively, demanding this concession from the sheriff.

“Won’t see a sign of any of the boys during your vacation.” The sheriff agrees.

“Better not.” Benny grinds out through gritted teeth.

“I’ll come down hard on any one who harasses you, Omega.”

“Pity that attitude didn’t exist last night.” Dean gripes. He twists his lip as the Sheriff offers Benny his hand. The two alphas’ shake is so brief Dean isn’t convinced that skin actually met skin.

Once the door has been slammed hard enough to rattle the hinges, Benny gathers Dean in so tight, it seems their bodies are merging. He offers greater solace than Dean feels he has any right to.

“You’re not underage are you, sweetheart?” 

The words are muttered into Dean’s hair. He shakes his head and mumbles back, “No. I’m really Dean.”

There is a relieved sigh. A hand spans his back and rubs soothingly, “Don’t be insulted, Cher. Those big green eyes and such beauty, you could pose for younger. I’d want you if you had just reached mating age or were shaving years off to avoid the stigma.”

Dean’s breath hitches. The narrowed eyes, assumption of defects, and disapproval experienced by older unmated omegas looms in his late night ponderings of a dismal future. The bitter sidelined maiden aunt and lonely bachelor omega are stereotypes exploited by sitcoms and soap operas. 

“I’ve upset you.” Benny’s tone rings with self-condemnation. 

“No, Alpha.” Dean whispers.

“I’m the unmated guy in his early thirties. But no-one points fingers at alphas who want some life experience before they settle down.” Benny sucks air. “I hate that expression _settle down_ as if finding your mate is _settling_.”

Dean laughs. He shudders with deep guffaws, shakes until tears wet his cheeks. Benny joins him with a puzzled lilt to his head, as if Dean’s laughter was contagious but the alpha doesn’t know what they are getting hysterical about.

Finally between gulping breaths, Dean explains, “After all the crap… those sonsabitches… that douchebag sheriff… you go all alpha over semantics…”

Benny’s thumb wipes away the dampness from Dean’s cheekbones, “You are amazing. I want to make you smile and laugh.”

Dean breaks out a wide shining grin, “You got it.”

“I hope so.” 

When their lips meet this time, they part slowly. Benny cups the back of Dean’s neck. Dean rests his arms on wide shoulders and joins his hands. Benny’s kiss is sweet and tenderly slow. Dean closes his eyes. He commits to the embrace, takes it up a level, showing his alpha that passion won’t break him. He tastes, flicks, explores, and presses their bodies together. Benny gets on board. He is pulled tighter. The alpha moans deep in his throat.

It’s glorious. Endorphins run riot, pumping through Dean’s veins. The world and its problems drop away. He could stay here in this moment forever.

 

++++++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSPN++++++++++++++++++++++++


	5. Five

The kiss stays with Dean. The phantom feel of Benny’s beard tickling his skin. The security of being held in alpha arms bolsters him. He takes another long shower. Being apart from Benny in the tiny washroom, restlessness itches. An anxiety pervades that he should be spending every waking minute on the hunt. It is ingrained. Dean Winchester hunts, follows his Alpha-Dad’s orders and he used to take care of Sammy, until Sammy didn’t need him anymore. 

Maybe a day of downtime is permissible. If he’d been sucker-punched by a vengeful spirit, he might have needed a morning to recover. 

Out from under the cooling spray, Dean wipes the unframed mirror. The wound on his arm has not reopened, but it is raw and sore, a pink line raised and puckered. He rubs his hand on peach fuzz, hollowing his cheeks. His torn lip gets a critical appraisal as does a new purpling bruise that overlays the yellowed fading mark of his father’s hand. There is no razor, only Benny’s beard trimmer. It reminds Dean that all his shit is back in Caleb’s family cabin. 

There is a folded pile of clothing on the linoleum just inside the bathroom door. A scrawled note on top says that these are Benny’s guess at the closest fit. Dean huffs in amusement as he lifts wide waisted pale gray sweatpants and a darker gray Henley. Small mercies exist. There is a drawstring on the pants and although the Henley’s big, it is not overly long. There are warm wool socks too, but if he wants footwear he’ll have to put back on the boots from the night before. He delays that act and pads out of the steamy room in stocking feet.

“Hi,” The alpha smiles kindly. His elbow propped on the rickety table, next to a quart of apple juice and a plate loaded with PBJ sandwiches. 

“Hi.” Dean responds, suddenly self-conscious.

“You have no clue how good you smell, do you, Cher?”

“Clean?” Dean jests. He is sure Benny has got it backwards. The alpha’s cinnamon, musk, suede, and earthy home makes Dean want to bury his nose in Benny’s clavicle and never come back. 

“Sweet…” Benny begins…

Dean raises a brow. He can’t scent himself. Sammy always used to curl his nose and say he was stinky. His previous rolls in the hay commented generically on his sweet sugary omega scent. But Benny isn’t finished. Dean’s lips part as he listens.

“… Candied orange Bergamot, raw cane sugar melting in my skillet, woody smoky leather maleness. There is a shade of match-strike…”

“Wait… you were going great there, Alpha, but I smell of sulfur?” Dean gapes.

Benny throws his head back, slaps his knee, “D’you always twist a compliment into an insult?”

“You don’t know me.” Dean mutters.

“Not sulfur,” Benny corrects. “No rotten eggs. It doesn’t belong. It’s almost like beta sharpness. It’s not your predominant scent. It contrasts with the others. But don’t fret, Cher. It makes your orange taffy sweeter, your wood more balsam.”

“Oh.” Dean chews his lip, regretting that his long use of suppressants lingers enough to be picked up by a finely tuned alpha nose. 

“You smell good to me.”

“Ditto, then, ‘cause I kinda can’t get enough of your musky spice.” Dean admits, risking a side-ways glance for Benny’s reaction.

“You want, come over, and have a sandwich? They’re not restaurant fare. I wasn’t expecting to entertain guests.” Benny’s quirked lip communicates how little trouble it is to have Dean as a surprise visitor. 

“Ah-hem, I mean, yeah, that’d be peachy.” 

Benny rises, as if he is going to pull out the chair for Dean, which would be a bit too much. Instead, Benny wants another hug. Wide-eyed Dean submits and sinks into his arms. He cheekily slides a hand up under Benny’s sweater so he can touch with only a layer of cotton as a barrier to the alpha’s skin. Benny tightens the hug, giving permission, which is enough to have Dean spread his fingers wide, pressing with his palm and leaning in to rest his forehead on Benny’s chest. He inhales deep.

“Huh, ‘s nice.” Dean admits. “I could get used to this.”

“Sure hope so, Sugar.” 

Benny strokes his arm. Dean closes his eyes. He is relaxed, boneless, prepared to phase out. Unfortunately Benny didn’t get that memo. 

“Eat and hydrate.”

Dean smirks, “Yes, Alpha.”

He takes a seat, ignores the surprised look at his quick smart response to a lovingly ordered directive.

The bread is dry, two days old, but the peanut butter is thick and the grape jelly generous. 

Mid way through lunch, the chef muses, “Y’know, Dean, I don’t know if it is safe for you on Gauntlet. That old codger of a cop isn’t doing squat, save for watching out for his reprobate son.”

Bitterness flares in Dean’s chest. He forces down his bite of sandwich, throat dry and narrowed.

“So, Sugar, if you want, we can make a trip off island? Call your parents? Arrange a meet up place?”

Dean tenses. He knows Benny can sense it by the way his large hand reaches over and resumes stroking his arm. 

He clears his throat, “Ah, no... I mean, no thank you, Alpha. I need to stay. My Dad expects me to be here.”

“But if we tell…”

Dean interrupts, “No way!” 

He shifts so he can look Benny in the eye, slows his speech to impart that he is deadly serious, “My Dad can never know. He will never hear of it. You promise me?”

Benny takes a beat. It is enough time for Dean to dread both an enraged John taking the law into his own hands, and an enraged John banning Dean from solo hunts until Hell freezes over and opens a skating rink.

“Sure,” Benny nods slowly, but not because he is being false. Dean can scent his honesty like pure freshwater. “My first natural reaction was to find your Alpha Dad and let him know you were attacked. However, I respect your judgment. You have my confidence.”

Warmth blooms in Dean’s core. He doesn’t even bother figuring out if Benny means that Dean has his silence or his esteem, either is awesome, both would be out of this world.

Benny leans across to press his lips tenderly against Dean’s brow. It’s simple to give into that touch, affectionate and freely given. 

They tidy up together. An old cabinet in the corner opens to reveal a dinky portable TV. Benny flicks on the local station to catch the end of the news. A raised brow and jerk of the head asks Dean if he wants to leave it on. A banner onscreen says that WABI has the daytime soaps coming up next. He shrugs while hoping that Benny won’t turn it off. He’s no soap addict, but many boring motel days were relieved by the impossible events in Seattle Mercy or Genoa City. Benny interprets Dean’s body language correctly. The TV plays on while the alpha cleans out his stove. Dean re-dresses his arm wound before shaking out the linens and making the bed. 

“Thank you, Sugar,” Benny says softly while Dean is bent over, smoothing down the top blanket.

“’S nothing,” Dean turns, seeing Benny standing with his weight on one leg, just looking. The omega smirks with a jaunty hip wiggle, the supreme dorky dance move. He puts on a sultry voice, “You like what you see?”

“Uh-hum, you could say that.” Benny’s voice lowers an octave.

Wetting his lips, Dean is almost rendered speechless. “Well if you want it, come and get it.”

Dean sprints in a curve around Benny. Laughing like a pup, he puts the kitchen table between them. 

In a blink of an eye, Benny’s palms brace the opposite edge of the wooden surface, “You think this old thing would keep me from you? I’d break it to kindling with my bare hands.”

Benny leans in. Dean bends forward. They meet in the middle. Dean scrapes Benny’s lips, nips the bottom flesh between his teeth and tugs playfully. A hand spans the side of his neck, holding him in place. Dean goes to touch, finds his fingers linked and squeezed. They breathe the same air until their awkward postures make them part, topping off the moment with final pecked lips. 

With a regretful smile, Benny hits the head. Dean makes coffee and takes his mug to an armchair to watch Dr Sexy MD. Benny putters around. He brings in more wood. Dean protests that the alpha should have asked him to help, but Benny wants him to take it easy. When the alpha takes the adjoining chair and sups at his cooling coffee, he asks what brought Dean to Gauntlet.

Dean puffs. He turns down the volume, chews the inside of his cheek, and discovers he cannot spin the story of a vacation to Benny.

“I’m not here to get a cabin ready for the arrival of my Alpha-Dad. We’re not on vacation.” Dean checks for reaction. Benny’s ice blue eyes are wide and he’s got his ears on. “We’re… that is… my family are sorta PIs.”

“Someone hired you to investigate a case on Gauntlet?” Benny’s voice rises in disbelief.

“Not exactly,” Dean winces. “We heard about the omega boys who vanished, and Dad wanted to look into it.”

“Dean.”

The omega’s head whips up.

“I’m calling bullshit.” Benny intones. His scent hasn’t flared with anger, but it is heavy with concern. “What private investigators take on cases with no remuneration?”

Dean coughs. “We’re sorta PIs. We’ve looked for missing people, investigated so-called accidents, bounty hunted, looked into suspicious arson, cattle deaths, and all kinds of crap. We’ll take on cases that other investigators have dumped and ones they wouldn’t touch with a barge pole.”

Dean hopes the deception of speaking not-quite-the-truth isn’t obvious. 

With hands spread open and a slight head shake Benny comments, “This sounds like a 1980s TV show, Dean. You telling me that your family is the A-Team?”

Dean throws his head back and cracks up. He can barely breathe from silent laughter, “If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire – The Winchesters.”

Benny hums thoughtfully, “That does explain the hint of synthetic beta.”

“Is it really strong?” Dean self-consciously sniffs at his own armpit, which has Benny whooping with mirth.

“You hear me, Darlin’? I said hint. If I have to keep tellin’ ya you scent like magic, mate and more, I’ll keep doing it.”

Dean puffs air and tries to process. “I was on sups and maskers for years. It takes a while…”

Dean’s voice trails away when he finally realizes that Benny is not condemning him. There is no backhanded critical slap to the compliment. No ‘great job but do better next time’. Dean looks up into shining blue eyes spilling understanding and care.

He licks his lips, “My baby bro left, I came off ‘em. Then Dad…” He looks to the ceiling, “He didn’t like it. He wanted a beta partner on cases. Few months back, kinda like now, we scored two hunts, huh, I mean, cases at the same time. Mine was in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.”

It was a werewolf in the Cascades. Dean had to track it. He needed his nose and his sups were almost out anyway. Then there was a Vetala pair that Bobby Singer sent him to Portland to chase. The venomous bitches had a taste for omega blood. Dean used himself as bait and ganked the vile duo before they saw his sliver blade coming. John wasn’t best pleased when they’d finally rendezvoused in Pennsylvania. Dean suspects that being exiled to Gauntlet is part of some passive aggressive John Winchester tactic to get him back on the sups.

Dean’s been lost in his memories too long. He looks up from under his lashes.

“So? Why isn’t your Dad with you now?”

“The Reaves family who own the cabin over on Harpoon Cove heard of the omega boys… asked Dad if he could give it a look over, see if there is a case here, and I guess, Dad wasn’t all that sure that it was our sort of gig, so he sent me to check it out.”

There is a growling rumble of disapproval deep in Benny’s chest. Instinctively Dean knows it isn’t aimed at him. One side of his lips twist in forbidden amusement that Benny’s gone all alpha in defiance of John Winchester’s orders. There is no rant from Benny, but Dean guesses that his alpha is going to store up that information.

“I’m twenty three.” Dean points out. “I’m an experienced investigator. I grew up in this business. It might not be stable but it’s all I’ve known.”

“I hear you.” Benny nods. “I can’t cast stones. Last few years I’ve wandered. Arrived here summer before last, Mac’s short order cook quit, he needed help, I offered, next thing I know I’m going through my second winter on the island. Guess you could call me an outsider.”

Dean dry laughs, “Join the club. Look up Misfit in the dictionary, odds on you’ll find a picture of the Winchesters.”

A serious pall falls over Benny’s features, “I am sorry. That’s no environment for a young omega.”

Dean bristles. Maybe he gave the wrong impression. “It was fine, cool even. Sammy and me, we’ve seen the whole country. Biggest ball of twine, twice. We always had the Impala, and our Dad was a hero, helping all those people when no one else could.”

“Well, Sugar, I’m a novice compared to that. Aside from a few vacations, I journeyed a spiral path up the east coast when I left Louisiana. Took my sweet time reaching here.”

“And you’re here to stay?” Dean asks lightly, but deep down it’s an important question.

“I got no ties.” Benny hums. He signals the talk done by rising to stretch his arms. “I’m bushed. Are you tired, Dean darlin’?”

He has been lazing in the chair but his alpha is dead on. Dean’s energy levels are dipping into the red. He nods his agreement, then gets blindsided by another of Benny’s unpredictable tender acts. He is led by the hand to the bed. Lying down for a nap, unless he has been up all night grave digging, is unheard of. They don’t undress, just lie on top like the elderly mates who hugged together on their bed as the Titanic went down. Dean might have embraced his omega empathy and shed a tear during that memorable scene in a darkened movie theater in Ohio.

Nosing into Benny’s neck, nuzzling like a pup, Dean falls into a light siesta.

He startles wake in panic. He hasn’t checked in with John. He is scrambling out of the bed. He’ll have to make it to the phone booth and make the call. 

“Dean. Dean?”

His boots are here somewhere. 

“Dean!”

Like he has been jerked on a string, Dean’s attention snaps towards his barked name. His breath is ragged. Thoughts flip flop between getting to the phone, finding footwear and Benny’s call.

“Where is the fire, sweetheart? What’s going on?”

“I gotta go. Sorry, sorry, Benny. I just gotta. I forgot and I gotta run.” Dean chants as he stuffs his heel into his left boot.

Two hands place steadying weight on his shoulders. How did Benny get that close that fast?

“Hold your horses. Tell me. Why?”

His exhalation shudders through his breast. “Dad. I gotta check in. Every day. Need to call.” Dean brightens with inspiration, “You got a cell phone I could use, Alpha?”

“No, Sugar. I got one but Gauntlet’s too far out for a signal.” Benny scrubs his jaw. “I don’t like the idea of you going running out of here to the phone booth.”

Dean takes Benny’s hands in his. He sucks in his lips, swallows, “I’m not disrespecting you here. But I have to check in. It’s how Dad knows what I’m doing, how the case is going, that I’m good.”

Benny’s lips part as if he going to make a comment about the previous night but he closes his mouth and huffs a nasal sigh. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Dean checks. His racing heart calms a fraction.

“Ground rules.” Benny states.

Dean nods his acquiescence before he’s heard them. Almost instantly marveling at how he has placed an instinctive trust in Benny.

“We go together… To Mac’s. He’s got a landline in the office. I’ll give ya privacy for the call, Cher. I gotta pick up some victuals or we’ll be on canned goods and peanut butter. I’ll come back to Mac’s for you. We’ll take the boat.”

All that sounds reasonable and sort of amazing, and it’s not yet 24 hours since the douchebags tried to… but Dean’s gotta nip this coddling in the bud. He can’t have Benny as his shadow if there is something paranormal going on here, or later during an afterwards that he is too afraid to hope for. 

It’s like Benny can pick up on Dean’s doubts.

“It’s not that I don’t think you couldn’t handle yourself if you bump into one of the dickwads from last night, but I would go out of my mind, Dean, if I had to stay behind,” Benny breaks the tension by grinning widely, “’specially since I’d be following you like a lap dog.”

Dean smiles back. He can’t be annoyed. It’s endearing. They are sounding out each other’s limits, discovering what one needs from the other. If Dean could persuade Benny to head north to Harpoon Cove, he could enter Gaunt dressed as John Rambo, which would make him feel a gazillion times better about the potential of seeing one of his attackers. On the other hand, trigger happy and armed to the teeth might not be the best option, and with Benny by his side he doubts he’ll face trouble.

They push out the boat together. It’s similar to the one at Caleb’s, although better maintained. Once they are on their way Dean makes a suggestion.

“Can we come back via Harpoon Cove? I want to pick up some stuff. You can stay in the boat. I don’t have much, and I’d like to shut off the pump and generator if I’m not going back there…”

Benny nearly scuttles the small craft, tipping it dangerously to embrace a shocked Dean. 

“Cher,” Benny’s chest swells, “You’ll stay with me? I’d be honored to help. I’ll do the pump and the generator, stow their boat, help you lock the place down, anything you want.”

Dean laughs fondly, “Benny, you are cracking me up. I’ve got a duffel that I can pack up quick smart. I want to put away the cabin linens. I wasn’t there long enough to mess it up much.” 

He thinks of the hunters’ weaponry that he wants to get locked up in the cabinets and of his research notes. “I’d gotten some provisions. Can bring them with. If you’ll tackle the outdoor chores, I’ll deal with inside.”

“Deal,” Benny chuckles. “Come on then, let’s get our business done in Gaunt and we’ll pick up your bag.”

A comfortable silence falls as the buildings of Gaunt grow larger. Dean twists round to let his eyes follow the far receding shape of the ferry on its run to Little Cranberry. Dean takes a chance to parse how overcome Benny was that he would stay with him. Benny must have been thinking that Dean might want to return to his ‘vacation’ cabin. His shoulders shake at how unintentionally cheeky he was to presume he could move right on in. To cover his well-received boo boo, Dean outlines the groceries they can collect later. Benny takes a chewed pencil from his breast pocket and scrubs lines through items on his list.

After all the anticipation, they tie up the boat and mount the ladder to the boardwalk without being accosted. They see only a few people busy with their own affairs as they march to Mac’s. Benny salutes a few patrons, who tactfully ignore the omega tucked under his arm. Dean fends off apologies from the barkeep, given on behalf of all those mortified that their youth would have attacked a lone omega. Dean insists he isn’t harmed. The words ring in his ears, wondering if he sounds like so many others in the past.

Benny runs over to the general store while Dean reaches voicemail, waits 15 minutes and tries again. John’s still not picking up so Dean repeats his message. He’s not worried about John, who could have had to take off into the wilds to find his target. In fact, Dean is thankful there wasn’t a conversation. He was unsure what to report, and couldn’t bear any probing questions on what he has being doing. He’s still kicking his own virtual butt for leaving himself exposed and, he cringes, vulnerable. The message Dean left was to the point. No conclusion yet, but he is making progress.

When he emerges to the alcove with restroom doors opposite, Benny is heads together with another alpha in plaid, jeans and an open parka. Both are in agreement, exchanging inflammatory words about how the sheriff is sitting on his hands. Slightly behind the new wiry blond alpha, is Jonah, in a thick navy sweater the arms of which come over his hands. Dean decides both that Jonah knits his family’s woolens and that the alpha must be Geoff. 

“Hey Dean,” The brunet omega greets in a soft hush, raising his hand to wave at Dean who is less than five feet away.

“Dean,” Benny turns with a welcoming beam, “You got your father?”

“Uh-huh, voicemail.” Dean nods in Benny’s direction, greets Jonah and is introduced to Geoff, who handshakes with a firm grip. Jonah tugs at the extra material of Benny’s old jacket where it falls loose on Dean’s body. The two omegas step to the side.

“Are you okay?” Jonah whispers, patting Dean’s arm as if trying to imbue him with some arcane omega fellowship healing powers.

“Uh-uh,” Dean nods. He keeps his voice low because Jonah wants the conversation to be private. “They didn’t... Benny arrived in time.”

Jonah’s eyes well up. “I can’t imagine… so awful. I cried when Geoff came home, wanted him to go back and ask you to shelter with us and the pups, but he told me Alpha Benny had you.”

“Um, yeah, Benny’s been great.”

“I bet,” Jonah wiggles his eyebrows.

“Hey, no and yes, I mean,” Dean swallows, “I think we are compatible, but…”

“Sorry! Oh my God,” Jonah is suddenly shamefaced, “I put my foot in it. I’m always doing that. Dean, honestly, I didn’t mean to suggest, not after you were almost … by those…”

Dean reaches out to grab the shorter omega’s wrist, “It’s alright, Man. I’m good.”

Jonah nods.

With a shiver Dean considers, “Benny came. I don’t even wanna think what happened to the others.”

Jaw dropped open enough to catch flies, Jonah gapes. “What others?”

“Y’know, the ones who disappeared?” Dean leans in, “The male omegas who turned up saying that they weren’t injured? Who knows what they did to them?”

Jonah’s eyelids flicker with disbelief, “No, Dean. You have it all wrong.”

Dean startles, “What?”

“Those omegas weren’t violated. They really lost time and woke up on the cliff path.”

“Jonah,” Dean hates to break the innocence of this sweet guy, “They tried to roofie me, and then they could have dumped my comatose…”

“Stop.” Jonah hisses, “No. That is not what happened to us.”

Dean stills. Jonah’s hand flies to cover his mouth.

Without pausing for breath, Dean pulls Jonah’s arm, dragging his new friend to the first low round table. He gives thumbs up to Benny and Geoff, signaling that all is okay. The table is in the alphas’ line of sight, but far enough away that if they speak in hushed tones they will not be overheard.

“Talk.” Dean demands in a tone that brooks no argument. It is one he trained hard to develop.

“I was…” Jonah glances round. He unconsciously pats his clavicle and runs his finger along the edge of his inch-wide black collar, begins fiddling with the narrow sliver D-ring. “I was seventeen.”

Dean hums encouragingly.

A slight brightness shines from Jonah’s gray eyes, “I was seeing Geoff. We didn’t mate until the next summer. I had Daniel, my pup who’s in kindergarten, before my nineteenth birthday.” He takes a beat, “I guess ‘cause I was dating Geoff, Mom and Mother weren’t as strict with me, about curfews and stuff. It was about this time of year. I’d been in heat seclusion for four long days. The moon was full. The house was closing in on me.”

Dean makes a noise of empathy. He remembers a time before suppressants, motel walls shrinking around him. He’d hotwired a car after his heat had broken, driven in circles around Algona, Iowa, until dawn. He’d returned it to its driveway, crawled back in the bathroom window, and made Sammy’s breakfast.

Jonah sighs deeply. “I wrapped up warm. I wore Geoff’s scarf, to have his scent with me. From my parents’ home there is a path down through the scrub to the Baleen. I hiked upstream, free and blessedly chilled. I remember marveling at how white the chapel looked in the moonlight, then nothing. Until I was so cold, stiff and exhausted. It was daylight and I was on the cliff path. It had rained. My clothes were damp and patterned with thin ice. I couldn’t believe how I could have fallen asleep. I didn’t understand how I’d made it from the church to a patch of grass on The Knuckle. And I was crapping myself about the lecture I was going to get for staying out all night. I can’t tell you how cold I was. Mild hypothermia, Doctor Russo said.”

Jonah goes silent. His eyes are distant.

“Your folks must have been frantic.” Dean prompts.

“That’s just it. I dragged myself towards home. They met me on the path, hugging and sobbing, overwhelming me. I hadn’t been gone overnight. I had been gone two nights. I didn’t believe them until we got home and they turned on the TV. Geoff had been out of his mind with worry too. Some people were looking at him as if he’d abducted me. They asked me endlessly, but I didn’t remember a thing.”

The way Jonah’s voice slows on the last sentence makes Dean narrow his eyes, “But there was something else?”

“It’s dumb,” Jonah ducks his head.

“I’ll listen.”

“Have you ever had a vivid nightmare where you know you are dreaming but you can’t wake up? You are trapped in the fear?”

Dean blows a sympathetic raspberry. He doesn’t think he ever had one that bad, but Sammy sometimes used to wake from vicious night terrors. Dean would hold his freaked out little brother for an age before he’d fall back to slumber.

“Strange awful terrors would wake me in a cold sweat. They came for months, not every night, but for months and months. I thought I was going wacko.” Jonah gulps, “There is this child, y’know?”

Dean doesn’t but he nods.

“I was alone when I vanished, but in my dreams, I see a lost child, a baby, a little tot. It calls plaintively to me and I want to comfort it, help it, but it’s waif-thin, dripping water and gray. I mean, its skin, the shift on its tiny body, its fingernails, pupil-less eyes are all gray. I’m so scared that in some dreams I piss myself. In others I run and the child follows in a panic. The worst was when I took the babe in my arms and it sobbed for its Papa until I felt so terribly drained and spent.”

“Geez, Jonah. What stopped it?” 

“I don’t know. They came less frequently as the days lengthened. I’d lost weight that winter, but with the summer my health improved and the nightmares tapered off. I had two maybe three of the child crying in the distance after I mated Geoff, then no more.”

“You don’t think it was a ghost?” Dean tries for bluntness to provoke Jonah’s theory.

“Come on, Dean? Have you been reading horror stories? No such thing. I guess it was my brain trying to comprehend what had happened, mixed in with my desire for pups with Geoff. Perhaps the story that losing time had happened to other omegas made me fantasize subconsciously. Perhaps I’d slipped and hit my head, maybe even bruised some area of the cortex responsible for dreams?”

Dean nods, covers his slight disappointment that he’ll have to hide his hunter side from Jonah. The omega is not the first victim of a specter or monster who rationalized away the supernatural. In the face of firsthand experience it’s amazing how a logical brain can deny, twist facts and misinterpret perceptions until the person is convinced nothing paranormal happened.

However, now Dean is convinced there is a monster. Maybe not a monstrous monster but perhaps a poor trapped spirit of a child, who over time is becoming vengeful, twisted and dangerous. He hates the thought of digging up such small bones and torching them, but it might have to be done. That’s all presuming Dean can successfully research who this child was. Also it presumes that there is a child. Racking his brains, Dean is sure he has seen accounts of monsters who can take the shape of children. Was it in one of Jim Murphy or Bobby Singer’s books?

Geoff and Benny approach. Jonah stands and slips under his mate’s arm. He smiles wanly at Dean, who tries to return a friendly enough grin to communicate that he both believed Jonah and is grateful that he confided in him. 

“You want to eat here?” Benny asks. “Or go home and I’ll use some ground round to make spiced patties?”

Dean doesn’t want to receive sympathies in looks or words from Mac’s patrons. Also it is more urgent now to get his stuff from Caleb’s cabin, because there is a rock solid case on Gauntlet.

There are reasons they don’t tell civilians the truth. Being considered completely insane is the doozy. Dean has no clue how he is going to broach the topic, not to mind explain The Truth to Benny. He doesn’t want to hide the hunt from him. If they have any future together, then Benny’s going to have to find out about the family business. Instead of being able to ease into it and formulate a plan of action, Jonah’s tale means he doesn’t have the luxury of time to think about a slow reveal. He can’t delay. He is mid-hunt and he’s going to have to tell his alpha.


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this evening as I strongly suspect the Season 10 premiere will render me insensible for days.

After Benny presses a kiss into his omega’s hair and reluctantly departs to work the day shift at Mac’s, Dean makes sure he has run the deadbolt across the door. The hunter spreads his notes across the table without risk of discovery. Hiding this essential part of his life feels shady, as if he is doing his alpha a disservice by not trusting him. It is kind of amazing how a mental paradigm shift has happened without a meltdown or freak out. When he thinks ‘My Alpha’, Benny’s face, scent and presence is automatically conjured. That’s just the way it is, and Dean finds he is fine with it. Before coming to Gauntlet Dean had not dared to dwell on a future mate, meaning either that his alpha was a shadowy figure or in practical legal terms, his Alpha-Dad. 

Dean digs under notebooks, the map pamphlet, and his spare spare denims with the ripped knee. While it feels good to be wearing his own clothes again; spare black denims, light gray Henley and his beige button down, Dean misses being swaddled in Benny’s scent. It’s colder today, so he can reasonably attribute slinging Benny’s dark wool scarf around his neck to the temperature. If he goes out later he thinks he’ll pick the coat Benny had put over his shoulders the evening before. It’s warmer than his short winter jacket. At the bottom of his duffel, next to his towel wrapped blades, is the half bottle of Jack Daniels that he discovered, cobweb decorated, tucked in the ‘hunting’ cabinet at Caleb’s place. He’s saving it for when he has the talk with Benny. He figures he is going to need a stiffener or three.

An hour later, Dean places his pencil on the table with a sense of satisfaction that he is on the right track. Jonah’s story was a goldmine, but he’d gleaned other clues from people he’d talked to, even Don Motherfucker Bryson. Dean has ruled out whole slews of evil sonsabitches. Lack of omens precludes demons. Not being rooted in a building makes poltergeists unlikely. Victims surviving strikes out plenty of options. Coming to Gauntlet has confirmed that the victims of choice are young, probably unmated, male omegas. Their brief abductions occur at night, under a full winter moon. They all turned up, chilled and suffering from symptoms of exposure or hypothermia. Jonah woke on The Knuckle. That is above the caves which had Dean’s hunter spidey senses pinging the moment he found out about them. He hasn’t dismissed the local legend of Rowan Emery yet. The witch was said to have been washed ashore and had the power to control the elements. Perhaps the witch cursed the isle in some way before she was exiled. He might be looking for some strange cursed object, one that the omegas came in contact with. Then there is Jonah’s nightmare, which Dean fits more neatly into a spirit or monster who feeds on the energy of its victim over a period of time. 

Dean reaches two conclusions. Firstly, he’s going to need to touch base with his Dad, Jim or Bobby. Once he gets a beat on the monster or the curse, he figures it will take an experienced hand to guide him on how to gank it. Secondly and pressingly, he needs to gather more facts. He’d like to find the beat on Emery, if there are any reputedly magical objects on the isle, and the burial place of any child who died tragically by exposure or drowning. The museum was set up for tourists but there is a library in the backroom of the chandlers/bookstore with the coffee stall. Hopefully along with being a lending library it holds local records, old news sheets and journals. If it doesn’t, then Dean will possibly have to journey to the archives in Ellsworth. Dean doesn’t mind hunting solo. In fact it is preferable to a dominant and grouchy drunk Alpha-Dad. But at times like this it is crap not having a partner. A couple of years back, Sam would have been attending Ellsworth High for the few weeks of the hunt, then Dean would both have had a base to come and go from, and Sam would have been ensconced in their library researching like the nerdy freak he is.

The promise of hot smooth tall coffee enables Dean to get his ass over to the library. He leaves a note for Benny, just in case his alpha returns earlier than expected. The tide is crashing against the rocks beyond the sands of the cove. Dean was sort of out of his mind when Benny carried him along the shoreline, but he makes an educated guess that at full tide that way is impassible. Dean mounts a sloping trail that runs behind the cabins. The gradient rises at the top, bringing him to the zenith almost smack bang where he raged against communication satellites a few nights earlier. It’s an easy walk down to the community. 

He grits his teeth passing The Lookout. Tension eases walking by Mac’s, knowing Benny is inside. He doesn’t escape without seeing one of the lowlifes. Leaning against the wall of the fish filleting building is Baldtop, a cigarette drooping out of his mouth. He’s talking to Abe Littman whose nose is covered like the villain in Cat Ballou. When they spot Dean, they turn their backs. The omega will gladly take a cold shoulder from those bastards, who it seems are sticking to the deal with the sheriff.

Moments later, Dean is holding the door open for an elderly beta gentleman whose arms are full of old paperback westerns. A waft of Arabica hits him, dilating his pupils with pure caffeine aroma. He snags a Danish and an espresso while he asks about the library. It is two linked rooms out back. The larger is the lending room. The smaller reference room needs the key from the librarian, and it is a treasure trove for Dean. They hold old news clippings, journals, pamphlets, and copies of parish records and settlers’ accounts. 

Alpha Simone Blanchet is an intimidating presence in a tweed pant suit. Dean is damn sure he never would have risked stealing a story book for Sammy from under her long roman nose and wire rimmed glasses. However she proves to be honestly pleased to host a visitor interested in local history. She does make him wear douchey white cotton gloves, but she also gives him free reign while she tends to her regulars back in the lending room. 

Mournful pup deaths in the parish registers increase in volume as he delves further into the past, but nothing screams monster to Dean. There are earlier editions of the tourist blurb and a couple of early twentieth century amateur publications for the consumption of visitors. Some include variations on the story of the witch, but there is no evidence of a ‘Fairy-cursed Stone’ or any stories of a Hope Diamond like object.

Finally in the glass case of older bound volumes, Dean hits pay dirt. He behaves and calls Simone for the key to the simple brass lock, which he could have picked with his eyes closed. 

“Which one caught your eye?” She asks with a knowing smile, reaching for the tallest tome which has “Charts” embossed on the spine.

Dean can understand why she presumes this is the one he wants. Old maps and sea charts are fascinating and a great source of annotated information. He shakes his head and points to a slim volume wedged between an old ledger and a bound book of letters.

“That one please, Alpha Blanchet.”

She hums, “Good choice. Nice to meet a history buff who seeks the real story behind our legend. Have a look at chapter seventeen in this too.” She takes out a paperback publication on Acadia National Park. “I wish I could stay and discuss your interpretation of events, but duty calls.”

Dean flicks open the 1950’s paperback. It contains personal accounts from visitors to this corner of the world. The chapter Alpha Simone recommends is the story of a naturalist beta parents and their family who overwintered on Gauntlet. Interestingly they comment that they heard the oral history of the witch legend and it is a salutary tale of its time, but they give no details. 

Sucking the top of his pencil, Dean can’t see anything new until he reaches a paragraph that has him scribbling like a crazy dude. Their teenage omega son vanished inexplicably into the January snows, the night before the full moon. Being experienced trackers, his parents found him some hours later, barely conscious and delirious. He recovered his wits within days, but the family relocated to Great Cranberry. Dean wants to put the book in a juicer to extract more information. He understands every crumb of intel builds the hunter’s pie of knowledge.

He pulls over his first choice. Beta Vera Bopp was a sober god-fearing antiquarian born before the turn of the century, according to the preface, which Dean skims. She was gravely concerned with how her grandfather Whitsunday was being painted in the scandalous heathen tale of The Witch of Gauntlet and undertook to write an account of the real evidence. She interviewed elderly islanders who remembered the events and combined their accounts with records of the time and some private letters in her family’s possession.

Vera’s pen was never going to win a Pulitzer. She writes in faux old English as if The King James Bible and perhaps the hand of her grandfather were her inspiration. 

_In the year of our Lord, Anno…_

Blah, blah, blah… If Sam was here, he’d love this. Dean skips ahead.

_Such as the stray omega, abandoned to Fate by God’s Hand and His Sea, did request parish aid to built shelter for his bones._

What the… _His?_ … Dean squints at the page, but the print does not change. Rowan Emery was a male omega. He was a man. A Man-Witch. 

Dean races ahead, glimpsing at Bopp praising paragraphs and weather reports. There is a direct quote from one of the pastor’s letters.

_Alpha George spends much time and a pretty penny courting Rowan but methinks with faint hope._

Any condemnation is aimed at Alpha George, whoever the hell he was. It looks like Rowan was more integrated into the isle community than the modern version of the tale. Vera rambles on but does impart that Rowan dwelled unmated in a cabin by the source of the Baleen. There is a whole chapter on the Civil War drought and how it was felt in Maine. This leads on to the years 1856/1857, when the drought gave way to a terrible winter famous for The Cold Storm that enveloped the eastern seaboard in snow that January. 

It was during this period that the Elders held council and agreed to _expel Rowan Emery and his bastard babe from God’s sacred isle._

What the ever-living fuck?

Dean scrubs his mouth and jaw. He refuses to get upset over something that happened almost a century and a half earlier. 

_When the concerned parishioners went to take Omega Emery from his place of abode, no sign or sight of the suckling pup remained._

Dean is getting pissed. Turns out this rock was always a home to motherfucking douchebags. They all deserved to have the life sucked out of them in his humble opinion. Except the elders of yesteryear and the rapacious sonsabitches of today are not the marks of the monster. It is innocent young vulnerable omegas like Jonah. 

Reading on, Dean discovers that Rowan broke down onboard the boat, beseeching the islanders to take him back, that he’d hidden his pup in the caves under The Knuckle. The omega swore foul oaths. He cursed the day he was saved from a watery death to be thrown onto the sands of his perdition.

A single tear splatters on the yellowed paper. Dean wipes rapidly with his cotton glove. He sniffles away any further display of how the account is wrenching his heart.

When the party returned, some of the gentler folk of Gaunt persuaded their alpha and beta mates to search the caves. High tide had risen and receded. There was no sign of Emery’s pup.

Dean can’t read the final pages. The weight of horror presses on his chest. A small voice in the back of his mind queries where the reputation of witchcraft came from. He holds his head in his hands, cogitating the possibilities. Rowan was made a scapegoat in the island’s history. They had perpetrated a vile and cruel act on a defenseless unmated omega and his pup. Unable to continue with such a stain on their characters, no doubt the story was twisted and corrupted until Rowan’s foul oaths and curses became witchcraft and even the continental United States’ extreme weather was laid at his door. The crabby greedy old female witch was a better stereotype, Rowan’s gender neutral name making the switch seamless.

Simone pops her head in to check on him. She must see the blotchy eyes and curled fists.

“What happened…” Dean chokes out. “What happened to Rowan?”

The alpha gives a hissing sigh. “I have no records to say, but there is a letter from a Connie Macken in one of the correspondence files. It suggests one of the ‘gentle folk of Gaunt’, perhaps a fellow omega, communicated to him that the pup had drowned. Rowan’s tale grew in the imaginations of succeeding generations. When I was young, it was tourist fare, but another version was employed to frighten omega pups and wayward teens into behaving with proper decorum.” 

“The drowning of a baby didn’t make the final cut for the masses.” Dean comments bitterly.

The librarian nods solemnly. She echoes Dean’s musings. “The dreadful truths were expunged in favor of creating the archetypical female witch of story-land.”

While he expresses his gratitude for her assistance, Dean can’t stop thinking that he may have to put to rest… he can’t use the word ‘gank’… the vengeful spirit of a tiny abandoned baby. 

As he walks the short distance to the phone booth, Dean chews everything over. This case is weird. There is a pain in his gut for long deceased Rowan Emery. He doesn’t care if the dude was really a man-witch. What happened to him was awful. He turns his mind away from conjured images of a tiny baby and the rising tide. 

He’s got John’s number half punched in, when he clangs the handset back into its cradle. Tongue twitching between his lips, Dean makes a decision. He’s not telling his Dad yet. He is breaking protocol and a direct order. He can’t face sitting cross legged on the dock the following day to greet John after he would have driven through the night, and having to explain his nascent relationship to either alpha. Another factor in his sideways fudging disobedience is that he hasn’t a clean cut conclusion. Is this a salt and burn? Or is it a monster to be ganked? 

He deliberately dials John’s other cell phone, the one that lives in the glove box of his Dad’s truck, and leaves his daily voicemail. 

On the way home he gathers Benny’s coat and scarf tighter against a biting wind. The lingering alpha musk has him feeling less morose than if his mind was still churning over Baby Emery’s drowning. Once the wood burning stove is pumping out a comforting heat, Dean swallows back a measure of Jack Daniels, raising his glass to Rowan’s memory. He stows his notes, then spends an hour fretting. It’s mainly over what he is going to say to Benny, but he also is trying to decide whether he should disturb Pastor Jim or Uncle Bobby for sage advice, or maybe report to his Dad after all.

Benny gets back before seven, bearing foil wrapped goodies. 

“Where’y’at, Dean?”

The cabin wasn’t built for Hide and Go Seek. Dean is out of the alpha’s immediate view because he has pushed the armchairs apart and is on the floor doing crunches to burn off some of his nervous energy. He rises to see Benny’s cheeks flushed and the alpha adjusting his stance, failing to conceal a rising hard on. It’s flattering that showing a little stomach muscle causes such a reaction. 

Benny covers with a choked cough and begins to lay out their evening repast.

“Fried breaded chicken, sides of buttery veg and baked potatoes.”

Dean straightens his clothing and thanks him with a stolen kiss.

There are also bottles of Mac’s Belgian style blond beer and a Styrofoam container bearing crushed Oreo base vanilla cheesecake. It’s not pie, but when Dean sticks a finger in the box he discovers it is damn near as good. 

They eat with chairs pulled close together. Benny fills Dean in on his day. He feeds Dean his first official bite of cheesecake from the end of his fork. Then he pants as the omega closes his lips around the treat and hums his appreciation with flickering eyelashes. 

Dean wishes he could put off having The Talk. He hates that he is going to spoil what promises to be a very enjoyable evening.

After their leavings are tided away and Benny has caught a news bulletin, Dean plunks a crate on its narrow side between their armchairs. He finds two squat tumblers under the sink. He fills each with a finger of Jack and sets them on his improvised table.

Mouth suddenly dry, Dean gulps his liquor and pours again. In his brain freeze he comprehends that he has been growing attached to Benny. If he is kicked out into the icy night, it’s going to hit him hard.

“Benny.” Dean puffs air. He’s going in head first. “I’d like us to lay our cards on the table.”

The alpha’s brow furls. He squints. “Sugar?”

“If we have any hope…” Dean licks his lips. “We’ve gotta begin this… straight, y’know?”

“You want my back-story?” Benny inhales deeply. 

Dean blinks. All the verbose word-vomit he’d been prepared to spew stalls on the tip of his tongue.

“You deserve to know,” A tremor breaks the alpha’s timbre, “what sort of alpha you’d be pairing yourself with.”

Blue eyes plead for a receptive audience. Their positions are the reverse of what Dean anticipated. With compressed hope that Benny will return the favor, he nods with a wan smile, and lets his alpha say his piece. Waiting makes Dean fidgety under his skin. However now that Benny has begun, he burns to hear what could make an alpha fear that his omega would reject him.

“I almost mated before.” Benny’s lips disappear, sucked in tight. “A High School joining. Her name was Andrea.”

“Late teenage is the prime time for omegas,” Dean encourages, understanding the circumstances, remembering the instinctual drive that he chemically dampened and repressed through pure willpower.

Benny scratches his beard under his ear. “Andrea is an alpha.”

Dean’s lips part in surprise. He is no bigot, but alpha-alpha unions are as taboo as omega-omega joinings. In fact he is almost sure they are against the law in the South.

“We flouted convention, perhaps with hindsight that was part of the thrill. Our relationship survived our time apart when I went to catering school. We moved in together when I qualified. I considered myself very much in love.”

“Yet you didn’t take the final step?”

“Andrea was reluctant when it was mentioned. Sometimes it would descend into a play fight about which family name we’d take. We talked about a vacation in New Jersey, where she had cousins, and doing the deed in front of a Mating Notary, discussed adopting a pup in the future… but it never happened.” Benny looks into the middle distance. “We focused on our careers. Andrea opened a boutique clothing store on the main drag. I cooked gumbo and po’boys at a roadside diner hut just off the highway.”

“Sounds great.” Dean enthuses with honesty.

“The chance came to buy the diner. Andrea was nearly more driven than me in our quest for a backer. I was young and foolish, blind and not business savvy. We gained the silent partnership of an old schoolmate, Quentin.” Benny shakes his head. His scent drops with regret. “The diner was no goldmine, but I was working off our debts, becoming solvent, and Andrea’s store was in the black. Then Quentin’s debts were called in by this scary motherfucker called Sorrento, who I later found out was the front of house face for this boss guy. The Old Man; the sort of ‘gator you wouldn’t want to come within a hundred miles of.”

“Did they hurt you?” Dean asks urgently, imagining goons with batons and knuckle rings laying into a younger version of his alpha.

“Only my pride, reputation, wallet, and by extension, my heart.” He clicks his tongue, “I lost the diner. Andrea left. She couldn’t take the stress, the poverty, my drinking, my depression… said I was Alpha and should remember that.”

Dean adds Andrea, the bitch, onto his shit list.

“Then Quentin got arrested for fraud. My old accounts were audited but I’d been scrupulous, if somewhat unorthodox in my filing system. I got the all clear, but that made me an object of suspicion to Sorrento’s lot. Suppose they couldn’t believe someone wouldn’t cheat, and they thought I’d cut some sort of deal. I had to leave Louisiana.” Benny pauses. “I wandered. Being a cook is a good skill. I picked up work. Spent a year in Georgia, another working in a Philly hospital kitchen. But I had an itch under my skin, as if I needed to move on, as if what I was seeking was elsewhere.”

Benny meets Dean’s gaze. The omega flushes so hard he is sure his ears are pink. 

“How’d you end up here?” Dean breathes. _Waiting for me?_ goes unsaid.

“Met Andrea in Jersey City. My luck was on a downturn. I was living in the van. She was with an older widowed omega. Seriously considering mating. She had step-pups, and a real nice life. Her mate-to-be had inherited this cabin from his deceased alpha, who used it for fishing vacations. Andrea and Monty discussed it and offered me the use until I’d get on my feet or make up my mind where to go. No questions asked and no pressure to move on, because Monty has no desire to visit and his pups won’t be bothered until they’re older.”

“Maybe she’s off my shit list.” Dean mutters.

“What? Sugar?” 

“Andrea. I don’t have to track her down and hurt her.”

Benny chuckles before a pall falls over his features. “So now you know.”

Dean is puzzled at the mood switch.

“I’m not a good provider.” Benny grinds out. “A poor example of an alpha.”

“Oh my God. Shut your mouth, Benny Lafitte!” Dean’s eyes are out on stalks. “You’ve just told me that you are resourceful, ambitious, a fighter through adversity, hardworking, and a talented chef.”

“Did I?” Benny’s eyes twinkle. “You sure you didn’t hear about bad business decisions, wanderlust and homelessness?”

“Nah.” Dean shakes his head. “You done good, Alpha.”

“I can’t tell you how much that means to me, Sugar.” Benny’s scent fills with cinnamon apple pie handed over on a velvety leather glove. “So, Darlin’, you wanted to exchange skeletons in the closet?”

If the situation wasn’t so perilous, Dean would find Benny’s choice of metaphor hilarious. Instead he tops up their glasses with the last of the Jack.

“I came to Gauntlet to look into omega disappearances,” Dean retells his alpha, before adding, “but not because we thought there were rapist/abductors or an omega abuse ring on the Cranberry Isles. Dad sent me because the cases went back generations, and because they were unexplained. Unexplainable by normal means.”

It comes out in a rush, Dean’s delivery fast paced but precise. He is deliberate in his honesty, if sparing on the details of injuries he has received. Dean tries to cover all bases, explaining how a poltergeist is different from a haunting, a witch from a Wiccan. He talks of growing up in the life, protecting Sammy, and helping his Dad. He speaks of the reward of knowing you’ve saved people, uncovered an evil and ganked it. His mouth is dry and heart pounding when he has finished.

Benny hasn’t said a word or moved a muscle. He also hasn’t fled into the night, which Dean counts as a win.

“It’s a lot to take on board.” Benny says with serious understatement.

“Do you believe me?” Dean dares to ask.

“If it were anyone else, I’d say they were on meth.”

Dean waits.

“I believe you believe it.”

“That’s not the same.” Having a sinking heart is a crap feeling.

“Dean...” Benny pauses. “I’ve never... I’m not religious or into new age crap.”

“Neither am I,” Dean protests. He tries to inject a little lightness, “Freaking hippies give me the creeps.”

Benny doesn’t smile. He stays on point. “I have faith in what I can see with my own eyes, touch with my own hands.”

Dean slumps. Rejection looms. It is a small naked blessing that his heart will only be partially flayed when he slinks out of Benny’s life.

“But I know you aren’t lying here. Could you be mistaken?”

A sudden anger flares. “My Mom was killed by a demon, in my baby brother’s nursery. She died. I lost my mother to one of those sonsabitches. There is no mistake.”

“You mean your father told you that.” Benny vibrates with unreleased anger against Dean’s Alpha-Dad. “He took his little pups on the road, in a quest for vengeance. Could he be feeding you tall tales?”

If he is going out the door anyway, Dean isn’t dropping his guns. He is loud enough to almost shout at his alpha, ignoring the little voice that says submit, hide, stay quiet.

“No, Man. Dad did what he had to do, and it wasn’t an easy life, but he never hid it from me. I saw things…” Dean doesn’t want to go down that path. He pleads, “Listen, I’ve personally hunted werewolves, expelled poltergeists and dealt with witches who could hex someone to death.”

It is Benny’s turn to raise his volume, not to crush Dean, but the alphaness is present.

“You are my mate. I’m trying to keep an open mind here. It’s like someone coming and telling you Extra Terrestrials are walking among us and the mothership is invisible up in the sky... Hey, aliens aren’t...?”

“No. No aliens.” Dean is relieved they are still talking. “Some shit that looks like it belongs in Roswell or on V but no, no aliens.”

“Right.” Benny huffs. “But zombies, witches, bigfoot, ghosts and fairies? Was Interview with A Vampire a factual account?”

Dean laughs. “Yes, yes, no, yes, maybe and I’ve never seen a vampire. Add in demons, pagan gods, ghouls, trolls, vengeful spirits, nixies, and a whole load of weird monsters.”

Benny drops his head into his hands. “I dunno what to say.”

“But you’re not kicking me to the curb? Not calling in the Men in White Coats?”

Benny winces. “It’s not normal.”

“Fuck normal.” The words fly out of Dean’s mouth. “Who the fuck is normal?”

Benny snorted. “You got me there, Sugar.”

Silence falls between them, the weight of impending judgment oppressive.

“You say you are on a.... hunt? Now?”

Dean nods.

“Show me.”

“Huh?”

“Let me into your world. Be it real or in your mind. I want to see. I want to understand.”

“You’re a civilian.” Dean winces, “You don’t know... You might get hurt.”

“You’re an omega. You might get hurt.”

“Touché.”

“I don’t know what to think…” Benny grimaces. “Whatever the truth, I don’t like the idea of you hunting. It sounds dangerous and my instincts scream to cherish you. I want to protect you from all your demons. This has been your life. But I’m not convinced it is what is best for you, and Mon Cher, I want you to have the best.”

Dean chokes up. He engulfed in emotion. He reaches a hand. 

Benny takes it. “I want in.”

“You do?” Dean’s voice falters as he asks for reassurance.

“Are you reluctant to let me in? Do you think I’ll compromise you?”

Dean composes himself, treats the question with gravity. “I don’t know. You’d need to follow my lead, my orders.”

Benny nods. “You can be Alpha General.”

Lips quirked up at the memory of boyhood make-believe games with army men and Sam’s desire to marshal their toy forces, Dean’s tight worries ease out a portion. 

He warns, “There can be long nights in this job of staking out boneyards or places there has been a sighting, so you have to promise not to have me committed to an institution for the omega insane, if we blow out on our first, second, even third try.”

Benny huffs, nods his assent.

“You can help with prep too. We need to fill rock salt casings, fill canteens of holy water, and maybe something else once I’ve sought expert advice.”

“Like what?”

“Dunno. Anything. Could be a stone knife dipped in lamb’s blood, a silver blade blessed by a Shinto priest, or a rock gathered at midnight from the spirit’s grave.”

“You’re serious?”

“Deadly.” Dean nods. He’ll take this. Benny’s mind is open. He’s willing to be exposed to the life and then make his decision. 

Dean finds his hand being squeezed. He raises his eyes, whispers a confession. “Alpha, I’m glad we’re together.”

 

+++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSN++++++++++++++++


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any grammar or spelling errors. It's late here but I wanted to post tonight.
> 
> Warning for smut at the start. Do I need to warn for smut?
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

Dean wakes to his name being uttered low and husky. He keeps his eyes closed, yields to the hot breath ghosting the back of his neck, and sidles back flush to Benny’s body. 

Benny is hard, hot, and alpha large, grinding against Dean’s crack. 

It is not unwelcome. Muzzy headed and in the luxury of slow wakefulness, Dean twists round gingerly, not dislodging Benny’s arm that wrapped over his side during the night. 

“Benny,” he whispers, hand reaching up from the warmth of blanket layers to rub the alpha’s cheek and beard. “Alpha.”

A barely intelligible grumble tells Dean to “G’way, I’m busy sexy busy.”

Dean snickers. He slips out of his sleep shorts, kicking them under the sheets. Wrestling off his top in the confined space, he is finally naked and able to work open the buttons of his alpha’s sleep shirt. He plants kisses to Benny’s jaw, lets his hip slide along the length of Benny’s impressive cock, and mutters morning endearments. Benny rouses when Dean nuzzles into his chest hair, ghosting his own morning breath over the alpha’s sensitive nubs.

There is a moment when Dean sees desire and more in Benny’s opening blue eyes, before shock takes over. Benny pushes Dean’s shoulder, backing away to the edge of the lumpy mattress. Head hitting the pillow, Dean sees the wood paneled ceiling. A sudden hurt breaks like a wave, rejection and a kick in the teeth. Was he wrong to take the initiative? Did Benny want him submissive and obedient?

“Sorry. Sorry, Dean,” Benny exclaims to his puzzled omega who has ducked his head, not wanting to be further dismissed. “I ain’t in control… was dreamin’… mated… you and me.”

Benny smacks his own forehead, leaving his hand covering his heavy brow and shading his eyes from Dean, whose brain catches up with what has happened. Benny was having a sex dream, a knotting dream of them both. That’s all sorts of peachy with Dean, but his alpha seems to think he should be horrified.

“Alpha,” Dean coaxes the older man to peek out between his fingers, “I liked it. I mean I loved it. What a way to wake? Right? Your mate wanting you even in his sleep. I mean, that’s all kinds of good. Better than good. I got with the program, look.”

Dean suggestively demonstrates his bare state with a hand running down his chest. 

Benny’s brain has a slow morning reboot. A grin breaks over his features. He doesn’t speak but his hand slides along the few inches between them to curl fingers around Dean’s wrist. The motion, the drop in tension, the musky spice ratcheting up, all shows the omega that his alpha craves him just as much as he does.

Dean pants with want. His alpha is mega-attractive when he smiles. Taking a look towards where only a single blanket covers, Benny’s half hard. It wouldn’t take much. Dean moistens his lips and gives his best ‘come hither’ gaze. 

A deep throated sexy rumble makes Dean’s groin flex. His dick is twitching. His muscles roll releasing slick. Alpha musk and omega taffy sweetness light up the air with complementary pheromones. 

“I want…” Dean’s throat narrows. He sucks oxygen. His pulse is racing. Blood floods south, sparing a little to pink his cheeks, and darken his bitten lips.

Benny’s thumb traces over Dean’s cheekbone, touching feather light the flush and the pattern of freckles. The pad of his digit barely touches the tip of Dean’s lashes as the omega closes his eyes, soaking in the simple caress.

“Darlin’,” Benny pauses. His thumb journeys over Dean’s soft new hair by his ear, along his jaw, tipping tenderly the corner of his bottom lip. “Are you sure? It has only been a few days since…”

Dean’s shallow breath hitches. He reaches up to still Benny’s fingertip caressing. Blinking for composure he replies firmly, “I am not a fragile flower. I am omega, but I know my own mind and I want. I want this. I want you.”

Benny needs no extra invitation. He launches forward, arms coming under and around Dean’s chest, flipping him onto his back, so he is looking up at his alpha totally onboard with his own sentiments. They share a brief low chuckle before Dean surges upwards as Benny tilts his head to meet him. The kiss is messy and urgent. Dean is in a sea of sensations. He is wet and needy. Benny’s rock hard length is trapped between them, heavy and on the verge of overwhelming. He doesn’t have time to worry about size or fit, because there is kissing and touching and parts of Benny to hold, scratch, nip and gasp into. 

“Can I?” Benny’s voice comes from another dimension. One where they exist together, wrapped up in each other, excluding all the crap of the world.

Dean breaks from where he is busy marking Benny’s jugular with a purpling hickey. He is not sure what he is agreeing to, but everything is golden.

“Hell yeah.” He gushes.

The alpha loses his nightwear before his wide grip finds Dean’s neglected cock. 

“Oh,” Dean gasps. That’s what Benny wanted. The alpha has taken control and Dean is more than okay with that.

Benny’s strips his oversensitive member until Dean is arching upwards, incapable of anything other than a moan, leaking slick onto the sheet below and then coming harder and more mindblowingly than any other time in his existence. 

Limp and languid, mind blissed out, Dean is easily and gently placed back into little spoon. Benny’s arm is a comforting weight, holding him afloat. Benny’s knee pushes against the back of his upper leg. Dean shifts. If his alpha gives him a moment, he’ll have no problem presenting for him, but Benny doesn’t seek anything so traditional. The alpha grinds, flush and hot against Dean’s crack. He moans his omega’s name, uses the glide of Dean’s own wetness, increases his pace until Dean’s arousal builds again. 

Dean urges, “Come on, Come on, Benny. Knot me.”

He wants to feel Benny enter him, take him, join them together. He craves the completion of knotting. He wants Benny to claim him. 

As if it is killing Benny to deny his omega, he hisses through gritted teeth, “Can’t knot. Got work.”

An alpha’s knot and an omega’s locking muscles can take hours to slacken enough for release. Dean knows this, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t give a flying fuck about Mac’s or Benny’s double shift. 

“Want our mating to be special, ours, no obligations, nothing stopping…”

“Shuddup,” Dean moans plaintively, “I get it. It’s all good. Keep moving, Alpha, Good God, do that again.”

Benny’s head catches Dean’s rim. It spikes something primal, primitive, possessive. For want of his alpha’s neck, Dean bites down on his own arm. He surges back, hips rising, cheeks smacking against his alpha’s body. Benny’s fingers grip Dean’s hips, holding him steady. Although he wants to move, to coax his alpha to enter him, the vice like grip has Dean shallow breathing, arousal coiling, and desire pooling deep inside. 

The slow continuous glide against his crack is driving Dean crazy. Small mewls escape his lips. Benny is uttering words of praise and worship that float like fortune cookie papers to Dean’s brain stem.

Lost in the feel of Dean’s body, Benny comes copiously with a roaring declaration.

“Dean, my omega, my perfect mate.”

Dean drops his hand down to beat off for a second almost dry coming, while Benny holds him close, plants kisses on his spine and into his hair. Snuggling together, hearts and pulses syncing into a less frantic pace, Dean is flattered and almost disbelieving at how hard Benny came, and they didn’t even mate. 

The bed is warm, stinky and sticky. Between Dean’s legs, it’s like Lake Superior, if freshwater was actually slick and come. The younger man grins at the turn of his own thoughts. He ignores the need to shower, noses into his alpha’s collar bone, and wallows in the moment. He permits himself to relish the way Benny’s sturdy arms envelop him, to enjoy the rumble of happiness that comes from his alpha. The open palm of Benny’s hand rubs his shoulder blade. If Dean was feline, he’d be purring. Any noise resembling such is purely co-incidental, more the hum of a great rock song, or the purr of a 275 horsepower Chevy Impala engine.

Slowly Benny sits up against tossed pillows. He pulls Dean in, so the omega’s back is leaning against his chest. 

“You good?”

“Peachy,” Dean answers honestly. “That was…”

“Stellar.”

Dean sniggers softly at the unusual word choice, “I was gonna say awesome, but stellar works.”

With a dry laugh Benny says over Dean’s shoulder, “Y’know, Darlin’, I fretted about telling you about my failed business and all, about my history of not being a good provider.”

Dean can hear bitter regret in Benny’s tone. He doesn’t want to mar what has been a stand out start to the day.

“Told ya last night, Alpha, ‘s not what I see. You did your best and I love that.”

Benny’s arm snakes round to rub Dean’s side. “I’ve been thinking. You are not private investigators. Doubt there’s much gold in ghost hunting. How do you get money to live?”

Dean hisses an inhalation. Looks like the afterglow was destined to be short lived. The criminal element of hunting had been glossed over in his recitation of the life. With his chin resting on his chest Dean grinds his teeth and answers, “Credit card scams, pool hustling, card tricks… if times are bad, stealing.”

“Goddamnit. Dean, you could have been beaten up, killed, arrested…”

Dean coughs, “I’ve been arrested. B&E for hunts… impersonating an officer… and when I was sixteen I was caught stealing food for Sammy.”

“What?”

Dean winces, expecting censure.

“Where was your Alpha father?”

“He was hunting. Okay? He was putting his life on the line, and it took longer than he thought, and I was down to the last of the housekeeping money, and tried a card con on the wrong guy, and then we had no food…”

Benny is actually growling. It shudders through their joined skin. Dean tries to calm his breathing, to pass soothing energy towards his alpha. “Benny, it’s okay. It was all good. I got sent to this home for delinquent omegas, but it wasn’t like one of those god-awful Dickensian places. It was way cool. I wish I coulda stayed longer, but my family needed me.”

“If that’s the worst…”

Dean trembles. It tries to avoid it, but this is his alpha, hopefully soon to be mate.

“It’s not?” Benny’s voice is low and pregnant with restrained concern.

“It’s just, y’know, a few times, IGotOnMyKneesInBackAlleysToFeedSammy, but it wasn’t like a lot, and I only blew guys or let ‘em grope me, y’know, they never, and I’m clean and all,” he gulps hard, “I don’t want you thinking I went into The Lookout for that, ‘cause I didn’t, Benny, I swear, I wasn’t, didn’t ask…”

“Good God, Dean.” Benny’s voice calls Dean back, “My omega, Mon Cher, I didn’t believe that for an instant. I do not think it now. There ain’t nothing you’ve said that changes what I feel, save to make me more determined that you will never… Never have to do that again.”

Dean finds arms around his torso, pulling him closer, a hushed whisper in his ear tells him that Benny is sorry that Dean lived like that, that it wasn’t his fault, and that Dean did the best he could.

“No more, Sugar. I’m here now.”

“No more, Alpha.” Dean vows, mind almost in white out at his mate’s acceptance and protectiveness.

They have to rise, to shower, to breakfast. After stacks of Dean’s pancakes which he flips while Benny dresses, the alpha leaves for Mac’s. There is a two week pattern to his shifts. If Dean had come this week, Benny wouldn’t have been working the weekend nights. It’s a sobering thought. Of course, if Benny’s ex- Andrea hadn’t given him this cabin to live, and if John hadn’t shoved Dean onto this hunt, then they might never have met. Dean was never a believer in fate or kismet. We make our own futures, but he remembers some paper Sam wrote on chaos theory and beat of a butterfly’s wings changing everything. How do mates meet each other? What draws them across miles and years? The topic has Dean’s head spinning. He abandons it in favor of choosing between Pastor Jim Murphy and Bobby Singer as go to lore master.

He mulls over who’d be his best source of knowledge as he slip slides on an icy path over the hill to the phone booth. Dean buys some gum and lighter fuel to get change for his calls. Hands in pockets, he vacillates between Jim and Bobby. Jim is the expert on demon lore, but Dean’s feeling fairly sure that he saw the toddler-shaped monster illustrations in a Japanese book that Sam had plucked off Bobby’s shelves. 

“Singer Salvage.”

“Hey, Bobby. It’s Dean.”

“You in trouble, son?” Bobby’s gruff voice makes Dean smile. The older beta hunter has been like a surrogate uncle. Simply hearing him lifts Dean’s spirits.

“No, Sir.”

“Guess your knuckle-headed Pa isn’t about? You hunting on your own again?” Bobby sighs, “Wish you’d let me partner you up with someone in my network, Dean.”

He almost tells Bobby that he’s got back up but that’s a whole other story and he needs to get the low down on their target. Avoiding Bobby’s concerns, Dean launches into an edited version of the events on Gauntlet. Bobby makes huh noises, makes him wait a moment to get a pen and paper, and calls him back when he is almost disconnected. 

“Sounds to me like a creature of the elements.” Bobby muses.

“Like an elemental? A changeling?” Dean racks his brain on how to kill the fae. Something about fire beating water. Maybe he’ll have to torch the isle.

“Could be. There are other nasty sons of bitches who take the guise of a pup. You sure the unfortunate child or his poor Papa aren’t planted on the island?”

“Pretty sure, Bobby.” Dean sighs. “No bones. Pup Emery was washed away, but I got a gut feeling about the little one’s tragic end. Maybe a monster who takes the form of lost babies?”

“Couldn’t be a frigging straightforward salt and burn with you?” Bobby grumbles fondly.

“Wouldn’t have needed to call you then.” Dean points out with a huffed affectionate laugh.

“Undine, water wraith, one of those souls sucking siren merpeople, maybe an Angiak changeling…”

“How do I kill it?”

“Geez, Dean. You think I can pull that sort of information out of my ass on command?”

Dean shakes the image out of his brain. 

The sigh is audible. “Call back in a couple hours.” The beta wearily adds, “And Dean, don’t be reckless in the meanwhile and go poke at this thing with a stick.”

“I won’t, Uncle Bobby.”

“Good boy. Can’t believe your Daddy left you chasing an undine or a water wraith all on your own, Son….”

Dean bites back a retort.

“But if anyone can take one on solo, it’s you.”

Now he’s blushing, forehead pressed against the glass. “Ahem, thanks Bobby, but I’m sure you or Dad…”

“Shuddup, Dean and take praise when it’s offered.”

“Yes, Bobby.”

“Give me until three.”

“Yessir.”

Knowing Bobby’s got his back on this, even if he is in Sioux Falls, Dean heads up hill to Mac’s Bar. It’s barely noon. There are a few early lunchers or brunchers in. Benny comes out for a minute, wiping his hands on his white apron. 

“Hey Sugar?” A kiss accompanies the query of his presence.

Dean kisses back. “Hey, Alpha.”

“You hungry?”

Dean shakes his head. “Soon, not yet. I’d like to stay for lunch. What’d’ you recommend?”

“I got a special of jumbo sausage, gravy, and biscuits. No cranberries.”

Saliva floods Dean’s mouth at the thought. “Save me some?”

“For you, anything.” Benny quirks his lips, “Guess you’ll want a slice of the pecan pie put aside too.”

Dean’s chest inflates. Benny knows his love of pie and he’ll keep him some. “You’re awesome.”

Benny grins and indulgently chuckles, “Anything else I can do you, Sugar?”

Dean thins his lips and nods. “You think Mac’ll let me use his computer?”

“So long as you’re not downloading crap,” Benny rolls his eyes, “June’s got a penchant for file sharing and Mac’s on a limited plan.”

“Just research,” Dean mutters. 

Benny’s eyes widen. He nods slowly. “I’ll clear it. Did you call the other hunters? Did you want to use Mac’s phone?”

“I called Bobby. He’s a friend, family really, often took in me and Sammy for a spell. He’s got a few leads.” Dean explains in a hushed tone. The place is still quiet but they are on the way to the restrooms, anyone could pass by. “He said to give him a few hours. I need to do my check in with Dad.”

“You talk to him yet? Or just his message and beep?”

Dean snorts “Bleep more like. Or will be when I reach him.”

Benny’s brow draws tight. He narrows his eyes.

After a bite down on the corner of his lip, Dean ventures, “Haven’t ganked anything yet, might have deliberately called his spare cell phone, haven’t run back begging to be put on sups so I can be his beta-hunting-partner… I don’t think Dad’s going be handing out any son of the year awards.”

Somehow Dean ends up swamped, his spine being rubbed and his cheek pressed against a damp mark that might be a splash of chowder or a fish based sauce. As if Benny Lafitte is hyper aware that a thin line has to be tread between supporting his omega and deriding John Winchester, the chef swallows audibly before uttering one sentence. 

“Any father would be proud to have as brave, honorable and valiant a son as you, Dean.”

It’s too much, too chick flick and bordering on issues that Dean has compressed over many years. He shrugs and aims for nonchalant, “Shucks, Alpha. Ya’haven’t seen me wrecked from my heat, with a hangover from Hell, or after I’ve eaten all the extra onions yet.”

“Extra onions, huh?” Benny smirks, going with the change of mood. “I’ll remember that.” He ticks off an imaginary list with his pointer finger, “Pie, pancake stacks, a good omelet, extra onions, micro-brewery beer, salty chips, and a great homemade cheese burger.”

“Bacon cheese burger.” Dean corrects with a shit faced grin and a poke at Benny’s chest.

“Lafitte, I got orders for ya!” A new voice calls from the bar.

“Crap. Got to work, Darlin’.” Benny sighs. “Tim! Stick a hot chocolate on my tab, would ya? And I’ll be serving my mate lunch too.”

“Sure thing, Chef.”

Benny retreats to the kitchen. Dean takes a corner table and sips his winter warming drink. He goes over his conversation with Bobby while he waits. Mac appears. He’d been to Mount Desert for supplies. Dean using his office is not a problem. 

Snagging another hot chocolate, Dean takes over the office desktop. He jumps from one link to another, dismissing undines, selkies and mermaids from his hunt. There is a Scottish based site claiming that the ghost hunters who make some sort of reality TV show had encountered a water wraith, but the artist’s impression is of an ancient wizened female beta. 

The alpha proprietor pops his head in suggesting Dean might like lunch. The hunter clears his browser history and gives way to Mac. He perches on a bar stool, making small talk with lanky beta Tim, who slices lemons and wipes down the shelves between taking a few orders for food and serving mostly dry sodas, coffees and hot tea. 

Benny wasn’t lying about the special. Dean gets extra onions in his gravy which is amazingly rich with flavor. The pecan pie makes Dean’s eyelids flicker, as he indulges in open mouthed chewing and lip smacking goodness. The chef appears, beaming at his omega’s empty dish, just as Dean is fumbling discreetly to open the button above his jeans’ fly. Benny gets captured for a deep sucking kiss. There are a few whoops and wolf whistles from the patrons. Dean doesn’t give a damn. Benny deserves every sort of praise.

When Tim sits down to his staff lunch, Mac emerges offering Dean the use of the computer again. Benny’s gone to start evening prep and cook the few late lunch orders. In front of the monitor, Dean’s hand hovers over the mouse. He decided to get his check in out of the way first. After leaving a super quick wham bam greeting, making progress, will call tomorrow, on the voicemail for John’s spare cell, Dean dials Sioux Falls.

“I got two front runners.” Bobby says in lieu of hello.

“Yeah?” Dean pops his tongue in his cheek, “You got a favorite?”

“You don’t ask much do ya?” Bobby chides fondly. “Water wraiths wrap their victims in hallucinations, some use nightmares, and they feed on the distress. Catch is they appear as creepy old nags, not pups in diapers.”

That tallies with the Scottish account. Dean hums, “Could be an illusion, the pup thing?”

“Kicker is that I’ve never heard of a wraith that didn’t kill.”

“What’s the other contender?”

“Angiak.” Bobby pauses. Paper rustles. “They feed but don’t kill until powered up. But a hundred fifty years is a helluva long time, Son.”

“The boys only vanish once a year,” Dean muses, “maybe it never gets to that stage. What’s the deal?”

“They’re vampiric revenants. Eskimo origin but similar stories pop up across the world. Tale is that in times of famine, newborns were left to die in the snow of exposure.”

Dean shudders. It matches what happened to Pup Emery.

Bobby continues, “Vengeful spirit animates the unbaptized abandoned pup’s body. It rises, seeks the birth parent, and suckles from them in the dead of night while they sleep. The birth parent is plagued by nightmares and they die a slow death from the energy drain. Finally the Angiak gets strong enough to shapeshift and kill the whole tribe, village, whatever.”

“Y’see, the start of that is bang on, Bobby. My witness had months of nightmares and loss of vitality, but he hadn’t pupped back then, and he is very much alive.”

“I don’t think they actually breastfeed, y’idjit.” 

Dean can almost hear Bobby’s eyes rolling as the beta expounds, “They draw on the life source, soul suckers. Nasty things. They are drawn to warmth and comfort. Said to be deadly as a rabid rat if cornered. You sure it hasn’t killed?”

“It’s possible.” Dean ponders if there had been an occasional unknown casualty over the decades. He asks the pertinent question. “How do I to kill it?”

“If you got a water wraith, silver blade. If it’s an Angiak, you gotta salt’n’burn the bones, which I guessed was a problem what with the tale you told me. So I dug deeper.” Bobby confides with a measure of researcher pride, “You’ll have to trap it.”

“Trap it?” Dean echoes.

“Uh-huh, trap it and baptize it.”

“Baptize it? I gotta get Jim Murphy here?” Dean gapes.

“Holy water, idjit!” Bobby gives a lengthy put upon sigh, “Get it to follow you onto Holy Ground.” 

“How do I get to manifest?” 

“What am I? The encyclopedia of Angiak knowledge? I dunno. What did the other omegas do?” Bobby bites. 

Dean hums. He wonders if being out at night was enough, maybe walking the cliff path, or did some paranormal urge draw the omegas from their beds.

Bobby clears his throat, “You want me to come?”

Lost in his train of thought, Dean speaks, “No. No I have help.”

“Ya’do?”

Dean wrinkles his nose. He didn’t mean to say anything.

“Civilian help?” Bobby probes.

“We were all civilians once, Bobby.”

There is a gruff harrumph. “Trustworthy help?”

“Yeah.” Dean scrubs the back of his neck, “Kinda met my alpha.”

“Come again, Dean Winchester. I thought you said you met your mate?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And this alpha guy or gal wasn’t newsworthy enough to be the banner headline?”

A laugh catches Dean’s throat. “Ahem, yeah. I mean no. I mean, he’s cool. Like awesome and cool.”

Bobby’s belly laugh turns up the corner of Dean’s lips. 

“You’re not winning any public speaking prizes here. You told him then?”

“Yeah.”

“And he is ‘cool’?” Bobby asks with concern.

“Straight up? I think he wants to believe me, but it’s gonna take hunting this thing as a team to convince him that I’m not loop-the-loop.”

“Son, if he’s still there, he’s probably a keeper, so long as he’s treating you right?”

“Hey, I wouldn’t give him the time of day if he was one of those alphas, and I’m not an innocent pup.”

“I know. I know you’re not.” Bobby says with a touch of sadness. He asks, “You tell John?”

“No.”

Bobby makes a pensive hum. “This alpha got a name?”

Dean snorts. “I’m calling him Alpha. Getting a kind of perverse pleasure out of it, cause he asked me to call him Benny.”

“Goddamn it, Dean. Only you’d try riling up your new alpha.” Bobby huffs. “Guess you wouldn’t be you if…”

From the corner of his eye, Dean sees the door handle move. He interrupts. “I gotta run, Bobby. I got company.”

“I hear ya. Dean, be safe, and I want to meet this Benny.”

“10-4” Dean utters quickly, “And thanks, Bobby.”

It’s Benny at the door, still in his cook’s whites and bearing two steaming mugs in one hand.

“Hey, Darlin’. I got a break. Thought I’d spend it in here with you.”

Dean welcomes him with a broad grin. 

“You made any progress?” Benny asks as he puts down the coffees and gestures to the computer.

“I think I know what we are dealing with.” 

Dean notices the peak of pleased sweet spice that he included Benny.

“You wanna share?”

Over the hot brews, Dean outlines Bobby’s lore and links it in with his own research. Running through everything clarifies it in the hunter’s mind. He’d forgotten how helpful talking things through with Sammy was. As he ends with Bobby’s advice on killing their target, Dean is 100% that they are dealing with an Angiak.

Benny nods and listens attentively. Even if this whole world is alien to the alpha, he treats Dean seriously and offers his opinion on the mofos who lived on Gauntlet in 1857.

“How do we entice this ghost pup to the Chapel of St. Nicholas?”

Dean doesn’t correct his alpha calling it a ghost. It’s a good question. 

“I don’t think we’re gonna have to summon it with a spell or try communicating with a planchette.” Dean rubs his hand over his mouth and jaw. “What did the others do? They went out at night, before the moon was totally full, probably along the cliff path, or the stream.”

“Are you suggesting that you go out alone? At night?” Benny’s eyes widen. His voice rises. “With those shits from The Lookout about? To be bait for something I thought only existed in horror movies?”

“Ahem. Yeah?” Dean tries.

“No way.” Benny’s closed fist slams onto the desk. 

Dean gulps. He jolts back in his seat. His stupid eyes fill with water. Are these Benny’s true colors? Could Dean have been so wrong about him? Is he to be banned, not only from hunting but from going out unaccompanied? It is not happening. Dean Winchester will not live like that for anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry??? for the abrupt ending. It seemed a 'good' place to stop.
> 
> Also a big Thank You with cherries on top to everyone who has commented, bookmarked, subscribed or left lovely yummy kudos. You all rock!


	8. Eight

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSPN+++++++++++++++++++++++++

Benny’s “No way” reverberates. It pops Dean’s bubble, scraping his heart raw, rattling his bones. All the little hopes and prayers, the tentative fantasies, are parceled up and shoved back in their boxes. If he has any lucid thoughts they are to chide himself for letting down his walls, for being foolish enough to believe a good life was being offered to him on a plate.

On the surface Dean is stoic, like stone. He tightens his jaw, squares his shoulders, draws on reserves and speaks.

“I am a capable…” Dean’s voice wobbles. He steadies it. “Hell, More than capable hunter. I protected Sammy all his life, since I was a four year old pup. I made my first sawn off at twelve. If you think you can stop me…”

Benny’s hand cups Dean’s shoulder, “Hold up, Sugar. You don’t understand. Not with Don Bryson and his crew out and about… Not alone. I’m all in.”

Fingers clench supportively into the hunter’s muscles. Dean holds his breath. Does he dare dropping the panic room walls that have shot up into place? Was he too hasty?

Benny’s voice remains level, his blue eyes search Dean’s, “I want you to take me with you. I can hang back, if you think this anorak won’t come if an alpha’s too near. What I said was, Sugar, is that no way will I let you do this alone.”

“Anorak?” Dean quavers, a sudden hilarity making him tremble. He can see a disembodied floating wet black bomber jacket or orange puffer coat terrorizing screaming omega teens, like some terrible Mel Brooks send up of a B-horror movie.

“Are you alright?” Benny urges, misinterpreting the trembling. “I care about you, care and want to protect you, my omega, please let me.”

Dean flushes. He’s hot enough to mimic a rush of blood during his heat. Did his alpha ask for permission to try and keep him safe?

“My wariness covers you using yourself to draw this thing out.” Benny grimaces in confession. “I mean, you got safeguards? Contingencies?”

Dean leans in closer, shuffles the desk chair towards his alpha. His heart is skipping beats, teeter tottering with his emotions, now on the upswing of amazed happiness that he’s got an alpha open to hearing his line of reasoning. “I figure, we go the night before the full moon. I don’t want to risk any other omega being taken.”

“Sugar, there ain’t any other visitors staying on the isle.”

Dean shakes his head. “Alpha, it’s not always a stranger. You can’t spill this… though I guess it’s an open secret on Gauntlet, but it happened to Jonah.”

The chef covers his mouth with his hand. “Geoff’s Jonah?”

“Yeah, way back.”

“That brings it home.” Benny scratches his beard thoughtfully as another layer of the truth settles. “Makes me more reluctant about you being the lure.”

Dean places his hand on Benny’s white clad lower arm. “This is what I do. We have to draw out the Angiak. We get one chance a year. I don’t want to miss it and I, sure as Hell, don’t want to be part of a Saturday search party looking for one of the football playing teenagers I saw last weekend.”

“I hear ya.” 

Encouraged Dean forges on, “It’d be better not to meet the creature when it’s at full power. A night early with an almost round moon. Try and get it to appear out of wherever, the sea, the caves, Baleen spring, the ether? If it is a blow out, then we get another shot on the night of the full moon.”

“That’d be Thursday and full on Friday, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll talk with Mac. See if I can pull another double tomorrow, then I’ll have the following two nights off.” Benny half laughs, “I’m getting to see how this hunting gig interferes with a regular job.”

Dean smiles knowingly. Benny’s got a great trade for a peripatetic hunter, able to pick up casual work or short term contracts. The omega plants a halt there before he presumes too much. They haven’t talked about what happens next for them as mates or maybe mates. Not that Dean will want to hunt when bearing pups. Nor does he fancy taking his little ones on the road, but he’ll never be able to ignore signs of a hunt. Benny doesn’t have to be a hunter. If they mate… 

Dean realizes with alarm that he must have spoken some of that whole spiel out loud because Benny is beaming like he’s won the state lottery. 

“So you’re saying I’ve gotta watch our pups while you fight ghosts and ghouls?”

Dean hears affection, amusement and mild ragging. He rises to the challenge, “…And witches, werewolves and wendigo.”

Benny drains the end of his coffee, giving Dean the opportunity to flip the mood darker.

“I was raised in the life, in the pursuit of the demon who killed my Mom, and all the sonsabitches like it. I am a hunter. But I don’t want it for my pups. Here am I, not yet mated, about to tell you that if our grown up pups want to join the Winchester Family Business I’ll help and train them, but not as little ones.” Dean huffs, “I’m a cocky dude, aren’t I?”

“No, Mon Cher, you are certain deep down inside that we’ll be side by side. I don’t doubt it.”

There is a lump the size of Texas in Dean’s throat. He blinks back emotion, nods and lets his alpha kiss him deeply.

“Now,” Benny gets back on point. “How do we kill an Angiak? And don’t say by having it K.O. you for 48 hours. What do we do if it does show?”

“I run for my life to consecrated ground.” Dean laughs humorlessly. “We douse it in holy water and alakazam.”

“Alakazam?” Benny repeats slowly.

“Yeah, Hey Presto, By the Power of Greyskull, Vamoose… Wait until you see a manifested spirit burn up as you torch its bones. There’s nothing like it.” Dean teases.

“I’ll take your word for it.” Benny plants a chaste kiss on Dean’s proffered cheek. “I’d like a slip more reassurance than magic words, but you’re the expert, Dean.”

Lips chewed and head ducked, Dean promises, “I’ll go over my notes, refine the details, Alpha.”

“Sounds good, Darlin’” 

“Oh,” Dean remembers, “I told Bobby.”

Benny raises his brows.

“About us. That I found my alpha.” 

“Well now, that does make me happy.” Benny pulls Dean out of his seat and into a bear hug. 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSPN+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

That night they sleep like commas between the last of Benny’s clean bed linen. If Benny’s arms squeeze a touch tighter, and Dean nuzzles in a little deeper, then that’s all fine. They wake early, slowly and lazily. The alpha provides toast and eggs over easy, to be consumed seated together in bed, legs wrapped in blankets. Benny goes to Mac’s a little earlier leaving Dean to snuggle alone, rubbing Benny’s lingering pheromones into his skin. It’s a far cry from his years of scent masking lotions and aerosols.

Eventually Dean braves the dark cloudy sky and seaweed strewn beach to run hard and fast. The training exercise stretches his muscles. The hunter is sweating and panting enough in cold morning air to meet the approval of Alpha John Winchester. After an hour flurries of snow send him back inside, stoking up the stove and getting a decent blaze going. 

He luxuriates in a long hot shower and dries off with a thick towel, which he swiped from Caleb’s family cabin. The rest of the day moves slowly marked by channel hopping through what Dean considers the highlights of daytime TV.

By mid-afternoon the snow showers have moved off to the south west. He wraps up in layers and the coat Benny let him wear. The snow was too wet to stay on the ground, though slushy patches remain. Dean figures it could freeze hard that night and hopes they won’t have inclement weather to contend with on their hunt. He hikes the cliff path to Gaunt, takes the turn by the firehouse to the chapel. He doesn’t see anyone he knows, except Kenny at work through the store window. For the sake of thoroughness Dean makes a sweep of the grave markers, going so far to take a couple of rubbings on the older stones. Definitely no Emery bodies in the ground. He passes an older alpha lady carrying a pot of heather as he departs. She pays him no mind. The overgrown path to the source of Baleen stream isn’t difficult to navigate. In the summer nettles, brush, high grasses and such probably make it hard, unless the islanders keep it clear. There is no evidence that anyone ever lived there, save for a flatter plateau about 10 foot square, where perhaps Rowan Emery built a dwelling hut. Unless the Angiak explodes from the trickling spring once a year, the site is not in contention for Dean and Benny’s Thursday night destination. 

Dean mounts a foot path to the cliff. Out to sea the snow clouds are building again. The wind is icy, telling of its Arctic origin. He huddles in the wool of his coat. The tide is against him once more. He can’t get round the rocks to the caves below The Knuckle. He makes a mental note to check low tide times. 

The Reaves family cabin is gloomy inside. Dean doesn’t bother with the generator. He knows what he wants. Benny needs a silver blade, just in case Dean’s got it all wrong and it turns out to be wraith. He snags a chunky beaded rosary, a nasty looking machete and a box of rock salt filled ammo to save making their own. Chewing his lip, Dean leaves a list of what he has taken inside the cabinet door. He reckons he is entitled to use the supplies on a case that came from Caleb’s lead, but that’s no reason not to let the next hunter know exactly what’s missing and needs to be replenished. 

He drops the weaponry at Benny’s before heading for Mac’s. Wet flakes cling to his coat as he dives into the bar, making it just before the snow comes down in buckets. 

Mac is using his office to do accounts but he kindly gives Dean a few minutes of privacy to call his Alpha-Dad. John’s voicemail is full, probably partially due to Dean’s previous messages. It’s a relief. He’s not sure how his dodging and fudging was coming across. When John does listen to them, he might turn his truck for Maine. 

The hunter considers taking cheeky advantage to do an internet search on tides and the moon’s phase. He is about to minimize Mac’s accounting program when he notices a slim small volume on the adjoining shelf. As Pilot boat operator, of course the barkeep possesses a book of tide tables. Dean’s got to compute the slight difference between Great Cranberry and Gauntlet, but he was always good at Math. 

Benny takes his break to eat rib eye and pepper sauce with Dean. The bar is busy and they don’t have much privacy. When Dean mentions his hike and how he struck out at Shark Tooth Bay again, Benny explains how to access and egress the caves. Turns out the alpha had ventured there on occasion during the summer months. By his description of the slender gaps and shallow scoops in the cliff, there is only one cave that is large enough to walk inside, close enough for Rowan Emery to clamber into holding a pup, and high enough above sea level not to fill with water until the tide is high.

++++++++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSPN+++++++++++++++++++++++

The day of the hunt begins like any other. They have to eat. Benny takes their dirty laundry to a neighbor who washes it for him in exchange for chores she detests. Antoinette is a single parent beta in her forties, who fillets fish part-time. It’s a long standing arrangement. Today Benny and Dean chop wood for her and clean her gutters, while the linens are washed and dried. 

Early evening, they prep for the hunt. Dean spreads hunting paraphernalia over the end of the bed. Benny stands to the side watching each item appear. 

Dean clicks his tongue, “Wait till I open the false bottom in my Baby’s trunk. Then you’ll see some gear. You’ve got to be prepared for virtually anything.”

Benny nods, smiling. “Boy scout Dean?”

The omega guffaws. “Not on your life. Took out a werewolf that was terrorizing a summer camp once. I was sixteen.”

“Sixteen.” Benny repeats with a puff of air. 

“It was my kill,” Dean gets lost in the memory. The validation of his Dad’s pride in him. The proof he could pass as a beta hunter. “Caught that fugly sonuvabitch bull’s-eye in the heart with an arrow from this badass crossbow. Burned it to a crisp in the backwoods. All those carefree teens slept easy in their camp beds, while me and my Alpha-Dad were sucking in the stench of roasted flesh, but y’know, it was pretty awesome. They’ll never know it, but we saved their hides. Times like that made all the sacrifices, the aches and nausea from the heat sups, the life on the road, the military standard physical training… everything… all worthwhile.”

Dean isn’t sure why that story deserved a bone crushing hug, but if Benny’s giving out hugs like free candy, who is he to complain. He tells less dramatic hunting stories of simple salt and burns while he makes a thigh holster for Benny so he can Velcro the machete. The silver blade came with a belt holder. He remembers to change the batteries in each of their flashlights. He fills his gun with the rock salt ammo and a couple of canteens with the holy water he’s got steeping in a plastic bucket.

Everything ship shape, Dean notices that Benny’s pacing a groove in the floor. There is a tinge of acrid trepidation in his scent. Has his alpha got pre-hunt jitters?

Dean narrows his eyes but a smile plays on his lips, ““You good, Alpha?”

“More or less, Sugar,” Benny sighs as he comes to stand at the bottom of the bed.

“Awh, Don’t worry, Benny, I got your back.” Dean smirks, bumping their shoulders together.

“I know. It might be my first rodeo but I got yours too.”

“You ready?”

Benny nods, grimly.

They suit and boot up. Benny insists Dean wear a scarf under his coat. He offers him a beanie and an extra sweater too. Dean plants the wooly hat on his head as Benny puts on his own cap, but he declines the sweater. Being wrapped up like a blimp might satisfy his alpha’s need to keep him warm, but it’s not going to allow the motion range essential on a hunt.

The moon is low, large and shining an illusionary road on the surface of the ocean. Sands glow below them where the cliff path verges to the edge. The snow has cleared, sky devoid of cloud cover. The temperature is dropping but their quick march and warm layers prevent the chill from doing more than reddening their cheeks and noses.

As they cross the sands of Shark Tooth Bay, Benny asks, “What can we do, can the Island do, if this doesn’t work?”

Pleasure at how Benny has accepted the existence of the supernatural on Dean’s word alone mingles with amusement that this question comes so late in the day, as they cross below the abandoned solo cabin. He stifles a laugh and gives a considered answer.

“Tradition says the Eskimo tribes moved on. Maybe evacuate Gauntlet?”

Benny cuffs him on the arm playfully.

“I got a gut feeling that the cave’s where it emerges. We are on the right track.” Dean offers reassurance. “It’s the place Rowan left his baby. Jonah woke on The Knuckle, maybe the Angiak left him there before it submerged under the waves for another year.”

As they get closer to the rocks, Benny paces ahead. The alpha knows how to negotiate the terrain. Dean’s happy to let him take the lead. Being a few steps back, Dean gets a full body view. Benny is freaking sex on legs. Now that they are apart from civilization, the alpha is holding his machete openly in his hand. He swings it loosely as they walk, preceding Dean onto the first low rocks. Admiration releases a trickle of slick, which Dean shrugs off. Neither the time nor the place. However the smell of ripe omega might be just what is needed to lure their revenant from the sea.

Unfortunately Dean has to tear his gaze away from the roll of Benny’s shoulders under his dark coat, to watch his own footing. The tide is receding, giving them a decent window to occupy the cave, but it makes the rocks more treacherous with their freshly revealed seaweed coating. Rock pools look a mix of black shadows and moonlit silver. The stratified surface inclines unevenly. Dean’s glad they have a cloudless sky. He can cope with the mercury dipping to thirty and the chill wind, knowing he’s not going to break his neck on unseen trip hazards.

In broad daylight on a summer’s day, the climb is probably a pleasant diversion. It’s an easy, if slippery, scramble under the cave entrance. Benny offers Dean his joined finger-linked hands as a boost. 

Dean grouches, “I’m not a medieval genteel omega mounting a horse.”

He ignores the offer of aid, grabbing a protruding sharp part and using his arms to take his weight, swinging his legs onto the next ledge. He almost harbors a grudge until he looks down to see Benny reaching up for assistance and a helping hand. Dean smirks, braces his side to the wet cliff, and extends an arm down. When they are on the level, Dean claps his alpha on the bicep and they share a grin.

Flashlights on, Dean can peer into the cave. It extends back only the length of two Impalas. There are a couple of ledges and slimy protruding rocks but the basic shape is curved triangular, the point at the rear just right of center. The cave mouth is illuminated by the moon but at the back it is pitch dark. 

He clambers over the final lip on his knees before using a handhold to heave himself upright. Benny’s right behind him. They move cautiously into the dark space, synchronized without a need for words. Dean takes a parsec to marvel at how they are flowing like mated predators. 

He lifts his long blade with his flashlight to illuminate a hip height shelf with a curved dip. It reminds him of a shallow bowl and deep down he knows that this is where Rowan placed his swaddled pup for safekeeping. 

“And now?” Benny asks interrupting Dean’s gloomy thoughts.

“We wait.” Dean replies slinking down to a crouch against the wall. “For the Angiak or until you reckon the rising tide means we’ve gotta scarper.”

“We should have coffee and donuts if it’s a stakeout.” Benny pouts regretfully.

“You’ve been watching too many procedural cop shows,” Dean ribs, “Chips and bing bongs, or in dire circumstances packets of jerky.”

“I’m making donuts for the next one.” Benny grouses.

Dean beams at both the promise of homemade donuts and the fact that Benny says they be together on the next hunt.

As they wait, Benny shifts uncomfortably from one perch to another, sometimes leaning into Dean’s side, sometimes standing at the cave mouth watching the rising moon and starlit sky. 

They don’t talk much. Dean reveals that he prefers stakeouts in the Impala, where he can listen to his cassettes. Benny gets him to describe his Baby in loving detail, smiling at the hunter’s enthusiasm.

They are both standing, facing each other midway when the alpha asks what he should do if the Angiak shows and casts a spell over Dean.

“Hum, I’m not sure it’s a spell, so to speak.” Dean flicks his gaze and the beam of his flashlight to the cave roof. “If it looks like I’m in a trance or I’m losing consciousness, then throw the holy water at it, or throw the sliver knife at it. I wish we had a flamethrower. I’m certain water creatures hate fire.”

“Splash or stab.” Benny confirms

“But Alpha,” Dean emphasizes, “Don’t be hasty. This may be our one shot at it, and I know if I am threatened every alpha molecule in your body’ll want to end the thing. You’ve got to give me a chance to get it to follow us to the chapel.”

“That’s a fine line you’re asking me to tread, Darlin’.”

“I trust you.” Dean says simply. He knows for certain that Benny won’t risk it if he is in too much danger. The trust he places is that his alpha won’t act to protect him prematurely.

No sooner has Dean spoken when there is a sibilant breathing noise from outside. A shape crawls over the lip of the cave, dripping water.

Dean flings his arm back, palm wide, connecting with Benny’s chest.

“Stay behind me.”

Dean knew the Angiak would not have the appearance of a newborn. Research, the passage of time, and Jonah’s nightmares suggested an older pup. All the same, his breath catches in his throat at the wretched pitiable sight approaching them.

Young, never matured beyond toddling age, the Angiak’s pallor is gray. It moves in a crouching crawl, all thin brittle elbows, and wrinkled boney knees. Sea water drips from its open mouth, ripped thin shift, and papery skin. It is an uncomfortable reminder of Pup Emery’s horrific drowning. Huge pupil-less, perhaps nothing but pupil, eyes focus in on Dean as it lifts its nostrils scenting the air. Its neck looks unable to support its head, breath steams from between pale bloodless lips. 

Part of Dean wants to run, another part wants to wrap it up in fluffy soft towels and bring it in from the cold. 

“Dean!” Benny expels as the creature reaches, open fingered with an uncanny whine towards the omega hunter.

The Angiak’s head swivels at an unnatural angle. It hisses at the unexpected non-omega intruder. Benny takes one intimidating step to put himself between it and Dean. There is only time for Dean to open his mouth to urge Benny to stay back, when the Angiak issues a howl of desperation. Benny’s whole bulk is flung back, slamming against the cave wall. The alpha raises one palm, gesturing to Dean that he is uninjured.

The Angiak moves crablike, jerky, looking less than human. It crawls up the cave wall opposite to Benny, all sharp angled elbows and eerie pup-like whines. 

Benny throws Dean a ‘what do we do now?’ look.

The flashlights flicker and die. 

Dean reaches for his gun with a shaky hand. He can’t shoot it. It’s not that he can’t see the wretched creature in the gloaming, nor that he’s unsure if rock salt would work. Normally he’d shoot first and ask questions later, but it’s a tiny pup, a lonely heartrending babe, who is pulling on every parental instinct the omega possesses. 

With a quick tongue swipe of his lips, Dean opens his arms to the shivering Angiak. 

It makes a spider leap from the wall, aiming for and landing into Dean‘s hold. It clings on, not so tight as to hurt Dean. Feeble vocalizations mixed with an ungainly attempt to hug, lead the omega to wrap his arms around the miserable creature. It is so cold. The chill spreads into Dean’s chest, tightening it. His breathing becomes shallow. The edges of his vision blur. He can see the Angiak’s little face, but all around is cloudy. Someone with a wonderful voice is calling his name from far far away. His balance falters, plunking his butt onto hard ground. The reason why he is holding a pup dies away. Dean is no longer sure where he is. What is vital is that this tiny pup needs him. All else is indistinct and unimportant. The world diminishes. All is fuzzy, gray, fading…

 

++++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSPN+++++++++++++++++++++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Acknowledgement: the conversation between Gordon Walker and Dean in Bloodlust is the source of werewolf kill story when Dean was sixteen years of age.
> 
> Thanks again everyone for all your encouragement. This story was originally plotted as a nine chapter Dean/Benny A/B/O chiller, but once I began writing I thought it would be 13 chapters. Looks more like 17 chapters now… hope you all don’t mind my wordy rambling extending the tale.


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: The one where there is knotting.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSPN++++++++++++++++++++++

Pervading cold.

His back is flat on hard rock.

There is a parcel of weight on his chest. Pointy bones dig between his ribs. 

Dean takes a shaky breath, filling his lungs with chill damp air… salty, sour, the long dead crab that four year old Sammy had hidden in the Impala… in the background something sweet spicy musk and home…

Tiny slender fingers are wrapped around his left pointer finger. Dean’s other hand braces a little body at its lower back. 

There’s a pup. A pup kneels on his body, a babe to keep warm and safe. 

He tries to open his eyes but the lids weigh heavy. 

When did he have a pup? Surely he’d remember his own child? 

Did he hit his head when he fell to this unyielding ground?

He swallows hard, searching his errant brain for clues to piece together. He’s collarless, unmated. Is the pup not his, this babe who tugs on his heart strings? How could he forget if he and Benny had a pup?

Benny!

Dean’s eyes flash open. 

The Angiak is perched upright, adhering to Dean’s hand. Two gray fingers of its other hand are being sucked between thin bloodless lips. 

Dean fixates on the pathetic creature, wowed that it downed him and pulled him into its lure, but also fascinated at its stillness and the way it is staring upwards with its huge glassy eyes… upwards at Benny.

Benny is scolding the Angiak, waggling a finger not ten inches from its face.

“You naughty little pup. Look what you’ve done to Omega Dean. He was trying to help you.”

The Angiak’s head tilts more towards the alpha. Its claw-like boney little fingers grip tighter, but the creature’s attention is all devoted to Benny.

It makes a snuffling little cry. Dean almost passes out again in amazement, when the Angiak keels over, hiding its face into his neck. It rubs its cheek against the patch of skin revealed by the opening of Dean’s coat and shirts, scenting and maybe scent-marking him. 

Almost of its own volition, Dean’s hand rises to rub soothing circles through the thin chilled damp shift covering the creature’s back.

“You’re a good pup. Bet you were real good for your Papa.” Dean coos. He might be projecting but he imagines the tension loosening out of the tiny thing’s muscles. “Alpha isn’t upset with you. He’s making sure we are okay. Poor baby, you are so cold.”

There is muffled whine. Dean feels his body heat leeching out, being absorbed by the pup. He doesn’t begrudge the lost of vitality. It’s not much and he doesn’t plan to allow it continue for long. 

It flips his stomach that he is permitting a monster to feed on him, but this situation is like no other he ever encountered. He feels that this time he’ll be doing the mark a favor by putting it down. Is the Angiak all monster? Does a remnant of Rowan Emery’s pup exist? This creature has a miserable existence. Is it alone and crying under the waves except for once a year when it comes to search for its Papa? It finds an omega like Rowan and takes all their love, comfort and energy, which Dean now believes each boy freely offered before their memories were wiped. Under the sea, does it feed on its psychic link, drawing more through nightmares that plague the unfortunate donor, until they leave Gauntlet, mate their alpha, or time wears the link away? 

If there was a spell to undo this curse or possession or whatever the fuck, then Dean would do it. He’d take the pup as his own. But there isn’t a spell, and he wonders if that thought was original, or if mid-feed Jonah imagined the Angiak as his and Geoff’s first pup.

It’s difficult to rise without disturbing his burden. Strong arms come under his to help him up. Benny’s got them. Dean leans sideways letting his alpha take his weight. He rubs their bodies together, thanking him wordlessly for his support, transmitting how glad he is that Benny is there.

The Angiak stirs, lifts its head, and fixes a glare at the alpha.

Benny’s hand is not perfectly steady when he cards damp strands of dark hair back from the creature’s forehead. It closes its eyes.

Dean shifts his hold, getting a hand under its butt, allowing it to wrap its legs around his hip opposite to Benny. 

“You wanna come with us, Lil’one?” Benny asks softly with anxious eyes searching Dean’s for approval.

“We’ll go up along the cliff.” Dean whispers tenderly, imbuing his voice with the encouraging lift he’d use with any toddling pup. He’s not sure if it understands language, maybe it was Benny’s chiding tone that had held its attention as Dean woke. On the other hand it must have been talked to by its victims. Perhaps it can mind read. Dean tries projecting a pleasant picture of walking the cliff path with Benny. “Come on, Little One, let’s get out of this stinky cave.”

Again it could be imagination or the feeding, but he feels the Angiak brighten at his words. 

Benny guides them out. Dean clings to the nuzzling pup as he makes the short jump from the ledge. His alpha guides him by the elbow over the slimier jutting rocks. A wave reaches its white foam edge over Dean’s boot, rippling into the rock pool he is crossing. The tide has turned. He must have unconscious for a while. Dean bites his lip, sorry for the worry Benny must have gone through.

Along the sands of Shark Tooth Bay, Benny takes off his coat and lays it over Dean’s shoulders. It swaddles him and the pup, who makes a surprised meep, before snuggling into the material. The kindness has a dual purpose, to hide their burden from any late night prying eyes, and an attempt to prevent Dean from becoming more chilled. 

Cradling the Angiak close, Dean allows Benny to assist again, leading them through the long grasses to where the hill rises. The Angiak makes suckling noises as if it misses its pacifier, though Dean guesses back then it was Rowan’s nipple or nothing. 

Dean’s footing slips on the icy dew. Benny is there to make sure he doesn’t slide down on his ass. By the light of the moon, Dean sees Benny shooting him a worried glance. The unspoken question, of if the spirit is draining Dean’s life force too much, is answered silently with a shake of the omega’s head.

Benny risks throwing his arm over Dean’s shoulder. Before the Angiak can startle, the alpha begins to whistle. It takes Dean a few moments to place the tune as Benny moves between whistling and then humming Morningtown Ride. Dean rocks the little thing to the rhythm of their steps and the lullaby. As they crest the hill and move along the cliff path to where they can descend to the chapel, Dean croons the lyrics he remembers, skipping and changing a few words that escape him.

“Maybe it is raining where our crew will ride, all the little travelers warm and snug inside. Rocking rolling riding out along the bay.”

The Angiak’s lids fall. It rests against Dean, ears perked listening to the alpha’s and the omega’s attempt to soothe.

Benny joins in, “Somewhere there is day. Somewhere there is Morningtown many miles away”

With its eyes closed the slip of a pup looks pathetic and tugs on Dean’s heart. He wishes it wasn’t a child of the living dead. If this was a living victim of some other monster, then Dean would never let it go. He’d be at the nearest courthouse solemnizing his mating to Benny and applying to be its guardian. The seed of doubt erupts once more that these broody cravings are part of the Angiak’s spell, a prelude to the grand finale sucking of energy and the amnesia. Deep down, Dean recognizes that walking along, cradling his own pup, under his alpha’s arm, is something that he wants and that he’ll fight to achieve. Mentally he thanks the revenant in his arms. He hopes there is a happy after for this more innocent, more desperate of the creatures he has hunted. He prays that both the Angiak and the soul of Pup Emery will be at rest.

The first indigo washes of pre-dawn hint in the East, when the scrape of the churchyard gate on gravel, alerts Dean that his alpha is opening the way. Benny marches towards the tall white chapel, but Dean is reluctant to enter the structure. It was the long dead church elders who condemned Rowan Emery and by default robbed Rowan’s pup of life. Dean’s got a fickle relationship with God. He’s not above pleading for aid in dire situations, and he’s seen some shit that would have a whore running for a nunnery. Holy water is one of the most efficient weapons. It must get its power from some divine source. At his core though, he’s agnostic. What sort of God would permit the injustices and cruelties of this world? Where was God when a demon burned his Mommy on the ceiling? When Rowan Emery screamed to deaf ears that his pup was in the cave under The Knuckle?

He won’t bring the Angiak into the church. The creature has existed exposed to the elements this long. They’ll put it to rest outside amongst the stones.

Benny trails behind as Dean walks towards the dawn and the older markers. The omega carefully lowers his body to sit between two plots where no-one places flowers anymore. 

Benny’s got both canteens of holy water slung over his shoulder. Dean thinks he is whistling The Dock of The Bay. Settled down, he shucks the extra layer of his alpha’s wool coat. The Angiak’s skin is pinking up. It is not yet healthy, alive or human looking, but it has color in its cheeks. A little pink tongue darts out as if tasting the air. It makes a plaintive wail in Benny’s direction, as if it wants the alpha to cuddle it too.

“I know. I know,” Benny soothes, reaches his hand out and pats its back above Dean’s hand.

Dean and Benny’s fingers touch. The alpha’s body heat makes Dean realize how cold he has become. 

“How about a name?” Benny asks. “You think it’d like that?”

It can’t do any harm. At least it will go to its eternal rest with its own name, not Angiak, or Pup Emery. Dean can’t tell if it’s male, female, alpha, beta or omega. No record existed of Rowan’s child’s gender. The monstrous spirit, possession, or transmutation has washed away the pup’s humanity over multitudes of tides. Like its Papa it might take a gender neutral name, one Dean will etch into his heart, and Benny will never forget. 

“Something universal?” Dean suggests, keeping his voice low.

Benny hums. “Phoenix?”

Dean shakes his head in awe. It’s perfect. Benny got it in one. 

“Hey pup,” Dean tickles around the back of its ear. Eyes that seem navy blue look at him. “Phoenix Emery. I don’t know if you remember, or if you’re even the same being as the little pup left in the cave…”

The Angiak shudders. 

“Phoenix rises from the flame. You like that? Pup Phoenix?” 

The kiss is clumsy, wet, drooling, and lip smacking to Dean’s jaw. The hunter blinks as his charge plants more unpracticed baby-kisses to his face. He laughs under the grateful affection. 

It’s time. They have done all they can for the Angiak. The day is brightening. Soon the first islanders will be about. Dean doesn’t want to know how the Angiak hides omega prey during the daylight hours. On balance, battery powering Phoenix hasn’t been the worst night of his life, but Dean hasn’t signed up for disappearing into a fugue, being sucked into the earth, or sliding into another dimension, to be fed from until the moon begins to wane.

He cradles the pup close, takes a moment to rub its back and press his cheek to its forehead. 

“Alpha.” Dean lifts a hand for one of the canteens.

Benny uncaps it. The alpha surprises him by leaning down to kiss the top of the Angiak’s head, causing it to snuggle with a purring noise into Dean’s armpit.

Dean adjusts the pup so he can take its weight on his left arm. He sucks air, offering a hopeful prayer for a good outcome.

He tilts the canteen so a trickle of water flows gently over the Angiak’s forehead. There is no hissing noise, no steam rising, no pain inflicted.

“Phoenix,” Dean intones, pouring the second trickle of holy water.

The pup blinks at him. Benny crouches beside and places his arm the hunter’s shoulders. 

The third pour is not as feeble. Dean empties the canteen, water flowing through the pup’s hair and over Dean’s arm. 

“I baptize you in the Name of The Father, The Son and The Holy Ghost.”

Benny adds softly, “Go in peace, Little One.”

Dean’s arms are lighter. The Angiak weighs less than a feather. A little tentative smile curves its lips. Dean is riveted by the sweet expression on its face, as it begins to blur. The body shape dissolves into gray smoke, features becoming indistinct, and then, like that, without fanfare, it is gone.

Tears flow down Dean’s cheeks. He looks up. Streaks of wetness shine on Benny’s face. 

“Is it always so…” Benny chokes, “… sad?” 

“No.” Dean wails, unable to describe victory dances and fist pumps. His arms are empty. 

Sadness at the whole freaking awfulness of the hunt gives away to the realization that they did it without harm, injury or casualties. Relief propels Dean into Benny’s body, seeking heat, solace and safety. 

Benny pats him down repeating, “Are you alright? Is it truly gone? Are you okay, Dean?”

“We did it,” Dean sighs gladly, “You’n’me, Alpha.”

Benny grins, as he helps Dean to his feet. The omega bends down to retrieve Benny’s overcoat and offers to return it. 

“I’m good, Sugar. You are frozen.”

Dean rubs at his arms, his alpha’s words are true. “How about we go home and warm up?”

Benny links his arm as they begin their walk back to the cabin. “Sounds good. Y’know, Darlin’, you were amazing.”

“You weren’t so bad,” Dean comments coyly. “Seeing you scolding it when I came round…”

There is a growly huff. “Your plea to hold back is all that stopped me from trying to behead the creepy thing… yet when you woke up, and you were cradling it, and it responded… I didn’t know what to think.”

“You did good.” Dean praises.

“We make a good team.” Benny responds.

Dean’s chest puffs. He is not alone. His alpha and he make a good hunting pair.

Full of admiration, Benny asks, “How do you do it? Thankless, dangerous, yet you’ve saved countless boys from a terrifying experience.”

“We saved them.” Dean bumps his alpha’s shoulder. “That’s the reward, saving people, knowing you’ve made a difference.”

“I can see it.”

“You can?”

“Yeah Sugar. I can.” Benny smiles. “And I saw you, so focused, so determined, yet you weren’t cruel or mean to the poor weird creature. I feel we did good for Phoenix too. You were superb.”

Dean chuckles. “I’m a badass omega.” 

He twists on his heel to walk a few steps backwards and wink at his alpha.

“Nothing bad about that sweet ass, Darlin’” Benny gives as good as he gets.

Dean smacks him on the arm, comes closer, gets to fulfill a desire and pull Benny by the suspenders until their bodies are flush. Their lips meet in a passionate embrace fueled by released endorphins of a post-hunt high. Dean’s back hits the side of the firehouse. He pulls on elastic, not letting Benny go. A hand cups his neck, directing the kiss.

“There ain’t nothing more that I want than to claim you here and now,” Benny rumbles.

Dean’s agreement in lost into his alpha’s skin.

“But I don’t wanna be arrested for indecency.”

With a full body chuckle, Dean steps out of the embrace. “Race you home.”

“Dean!” 

The omega gets a few yards head start, but as their laughter and pounding feet enliven the deserted Gaunt street, Benny catches up. He puts all his alpha on display, scooping Dean up, arms under his knees. The omega’s mirth spills over. He attributes being snagged into a bridal carry to his drained energy. He doesn’t bother rationalizing how he throws his arms around Benny’s neck and tries to suck a deep hickey into his neck on the way to the cabin.

“Gonna warm you up.” Benny promises. “Gonna share my body heat under our blankets. Gonna feel your skin against mine.”

“That’s more like it.” Dean mutters.

Placed on his feet to enter the cabin, Dean pulls Benny through the door, slamming it behind. Clothes fly. Weapons clatter to the floor. Benny growls, crowding his omega backwards in a way that sparks a flare of need. Dean nips at exposed neck, rubs his lips into Benny’s beard. Knees hit the bed. Craving all of his alpha, Dean pulls him down. They maul each other like lions at play. They roll in the linens, tossing them, rooting to make a mating nest. They instinctively synchronize, always in skin to skin contact. It’s primal and raw and so right. Dean wants to present. He makes to go on his knees, whines when Benny manhandles him onto his back.

“See you.” Benny commands.

Dean reaches to join their fingers together. He strains his neck back exposing as much of his throat as he can. Benny leans down, pushing their hands to the pillows and nibbles at Dean’s skin. He sucks the column of Dean’s neck, traces with teeth, pinches where collar bone joins shoulder.

“Here?” The alpha asks. 

“Yes, Hell Yeah. Come on, Alpha, come on.” Dean pants. Every fiber craves this. He wants Benny’s bite, his claim, his knot. He wants to be Benny’s, wants Benny to be his.

It’s painful, blinding, hurts. Hallmark cards never write verses about the intense agony of teeth tearing into skin, blood pumping burn. Dean digs his nails into the back of Benny’s hands. He hisses through it. Benny growls, highly aroused, cock hard as diamond, hot and trapped. His alpha laves the wound, saliva mixing his omega’s blood. And Dean is slick, hips rising. The sudden pain is fading to a background ache, replaced by vigorous need to be joined into one mated couple with his alpha. 

“Need you.” Dean keens. 

“I got you.” Benny grinds down.

“Benny.” Dean releases his grip on his alpha’s hands, uses the freedom to touch, wrap their bodies tighter. 

Benny slides down. Ecstasy breaks over the hunter as the tip of his head is kissed, sucked and given his alpha’s full attention. This is all kinds of wonderful but the claim craves to be fulfilled. 

Dean mewls and wriggles for attention, uncaring of the wanton image he presents. Benny releases his cock to chuckle. Goddamn him. 

“Alpha. Please.” Dean begs. The need is driving him crazy.

“My omega. My Dean.” 

Beard rubbing sensitive inner thigh skin, Benny’s tongue swipes Dean’s heavy sack. Fingers find him wet, open, willing, trembling. 

“Bestest Omega.”

The praise glows.

Dean’s hands rove to find his alpha’s swollen velvet length. Under Dean’s enthusiastic jerking hand job, he can feel Benny’s knotting muscles clenching in preparation. Breath catches that he is the one eliciting Benny’s knot to swell. Omega power is sweet and heady. Benny’s knot promises to be formidable and it’s all for him. 

“Dean, open for me.” It’s a directive from his alpha, said with tender awe.

Drawing his knees up, Dean almost loses his senses at the sensation of Benny’s tongue sucking and laving his rim. He grips his own legs for want of what to do.

“My alpha. My Mate… my mate…” The word is amazing.

Dean’s mate enters slowly, allowing him to adjust to the push and slight burn. He’s filled in a way he’d never imagined, relentlessly and completely. His blood pounds, thundering through his veins, heart stutters with arousal.

“Move, Alpha. Please move.” 

And Benny does, filling the morning air with terms of endearment and praise, receiving his name on a looping repeat from Dean’s throat. Benny catches Dean’s prostate. His ball sack slaps Dean’s skin. His knot grows, putting delicious yet maddening pressure on the omega’s gland. As Dean comes with a roar, hot strings of spend hitting Benny’s and his torsos, his omega muscles lock in Benny’s knot, tying them together.

“Sugar, Oh,” Benny breathes, head thrown back, sweat decorating his neck and chest, “So good. Can’t hold. Oh, Dean. My Mate.”

His alpha’s whole body vibrates as he comes. Knot pulses. Come coats Dean’s insides, continuously pulsing filling him. 

“I wish I was in heat.” Dean cries aloud, out of the blue overwhelmed by wanting a pup of their own.

“Shush, Darlin’, shush, Mon Cher.” Benny’s hand cards his hair. Eyes shine full of devotion from above.

“Benny.” Dean’s throat is raw, his heart open and exposed.

“We’ll have your heats,” Benny pledges, shifting them to face each other on their sides, tangling legs, ensuring his weight won’t crush his new mate while they are tied. “We’ll have our time for a pup… pups?”

The hopeful end lilt has Dean smiling.

“Sugar, our mating is ours.”

A wrinkle creases Dean’s brow seeking explanation.

“We decided,” Benny begins, stroking the side of Dean’s face. “No, scratch that… we chose each other. If I had no morals, we could have mated that first night. Our scents matched.”

Dean hums. He wouldn’t have objected because it is Benny, but it would have been traumatic to go from being almost raped to be suddenly mated.

“We discovered each other compatible. We get on. Hell, I went on your hunt.” Benny grins.

“Hunted together.” Dean amends. 

That earns him a kiss pressed to his jaw. 

“No heat pheromones. No heat cravings clouding your mind or mine. That’s what I mean. United, joined, and mated because we freely give each other.” With careful enunciation, Benny whispers into the shell of Dean’s ear. “I freely give myself to you.” 

“And I to you.” Dean responds with the rote mating ceremony words for betas and alphas. Normally the omega speaks the words Benny uttered and the alpha accepts the gift with a simple ‘Mine’ or ‘My Omega’.

They fall into a light slumber. Dean wakes. They remain tied but muscles no longer seize. Benny eases them gingerly into a spooning position. He wraps his arms around Dean anew. 

“Will we have to leave here?” Benny asks over Dean’s shoulder. 

A stone of regret lodges in Dean’s stomach. “I can stay if you wish it.”

“But you would be miserable trapped on this island.” Benny speaks Dean’s unformed thoughts. “Not hunting, away from your Dad.”

Dean raises an eyebrow unseen by his mate. Being away from John for a spell isn’t high on his list of downsides. 

“I need to talk with Mac. Don’t wanna leave him hanging. Might have to put in a couple shifts.” Benny clicks his tongue. “A few days, Dean? Is that good for you?”

“Yes, Alpha. That’s good.” Dean’s eyes water. He’s the luckiest son of bitch on the planet.

“How’s the mark?” Benny’s fingers tip lightly around the bite.

“Sore,” Dean cranes his neck and eyes trying to see the wound. “Not too bad. ‘s not bleeding.”

“I’ll dress it when we get up.” 

“That’d be peachy.” Dean mumbles, pulling one of his alpha’s strong arms around him and making a comfy nest in their cocoon for another nap. He bets Benny’s one of those romantic minded alphas who renew their claim with purpling hickeys, never letting it fade away. He makes a personal vow to always adorn his alpha’s skin with his own marks. 

“I’m sorry, Mon Cher, there’s nowhere to purchase a collar on Gauntlet.” Benny rushes to add on, “That’s if you don’t want mating rings instead, because…”

It’s Dean’s turn to shush his mate. He twists his neck round so he can see Benny, saying firmly, “I want your collar.”

The force of his statement shocks them both. The vehemence comes from Dean’s most hoarded desires. 

“All my life I’ve denied, been denied, been unable to be who I am. Forced to pass as beta. Sups and chemicals rammed down my gut. Unable to ride out my heats. Pretending I don’t care, didn’t want…” Dean gulps back all his pent up sorrows. He steadies his voice. “I am omega and I will not hide any longer. I am proud to be your mate. I don’t want a ring exchange, I want everyone to know I’m your omega, My Alpha.”

“Dean,” Benny holds him tight, “I’d be honored.”

“I’m not wearing sparkles.” Dean pouts happily, “or pink, or freaky D-rings, or some shiny metal chain link necklace thing.”

“Uh-hum, Dean picks his own collar. Check.”

“You’ve gotta like it too.” Dean pipes up.

“I got input. Check.” Benny’s chest rumbles with amusement. “Better wait until we hit Bangor, or maybe Portland, to find a mating notary. Wouldn’t want a place with a poor selection of collars, you might dump my ass.”

That joshing earns Benny a soft elbowing. “Shuddup. I’m no diva.”

“I know, Sugar. You want the perfect one.”

“Right on.” Dean is mollified. Snuggles in, all is good. He treasures this time, the morning of his mating. He tries to commit each detail to memory, to freeze it cryogenically or in the amber of his cortex. He wants to store it up against crap future days, troubles they will face. When the shit hits the fan without a paddle, from now on, he’ll have Benny beside him, joined, each holding a piece of the other, mates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be a party pooper, I will kindly remind my readers that Dean needs to call John.


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter yet and unapologetically full of tooth-rotting fluff…
> 
> Thank you to everyone reading and leaving your lovely comments and kudos.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSPN+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

The next couple of days fly by. Dean is buoyed by a ‘honeymoon’ sensation. They have plenty of sex, sounding out each other’s bedroom preferences. Dean finds being held down by Benny’s strong arms drives him wild. Although Benny’s priority is face to face mating, they discover that doggie style over the bed with Dean’s knees on the mat, leads to frenzied knotting. Rug burn was a small price to pay.

Since the claim, Dean is more keenly aware of his alpha. He hates being apart from his mate for too long. He can sense Benny’s mood and his presence or absence. Awareness that his alpha is also more closely attuned to Dean’s secreted emotions is kind of daunting until he remembers that the person with this unique insight is Benny, his alpha. If he takes a few nuzzling inhalations for calming equilibrium then that’s alright. 

Benny puts in long hours over Mac’s burner and behind the bar to give Tim, June and Mac’s other part-time cook the weekend off. The new mates plan to leave Gauntlet early in the week and this way Benny’s boss has a chance to rope in some new help or organize a temp from the mainland. While his alpha sweats over a hot stove, Dean scrubs clean and packs up the cabin. They discuss what is to be left behind or given away. Benny’s face is priceless when he comes home to see neat separate piles of knick knacks, kitchen bits, and household items that have accumulated over his time on the island. They offer Jonah his pick and take the leftovers to the goodwill box in the church for distribution. One strong cardboard crate is placed to the side for implements Benny wants to bring. When Dean learns that the cook owns his own set of chefs’ knives, he grins like a loon imagining matching up his own knife collection with Benny’s non-weaponry one. The red silicone whisk that Dean used on the eggs for their first breakfast together gets sneaked into the ‘take with’ box too.

When he is not sorting out the logistics of their move, Dean spends time at Mac’s or writes up the story of The Angiak for his Dad’s journal entry and to share with Bobby, who he knows will be fascinated by the additional lore on the creature. Putting down in words what happened to Rowan and Phoenix is a depressing task. It takes Dean more than one stab at completing it. He finds himself enticing Benny from Mac’s kitchen more than once to indulge in being the recipient of understanding body encompassing squeezes. 

By Monday everything is sorted. They might leave on Tuesday’s ferry but Dean is fine with another day on Gaunt, if Benny is nostalgic or wants to visit friends. With time on his hands, Dean takes a stool at Mac’s bar. Benny is on his last shift. The alpha grouses repeated rhetorical questions about how he is meant to cook with all his regulars popping their heads into his kitchen to say their farewells.

June hangs up her bar-rag, kisses her Alpha-Dad on the cheek and lets Benny peck her cheek goodbye. As she heads off, Tim arrives for the shift change over.

He greets, “Hey Dean, you get the message?”

Slurping a coffee, Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Damn, June.” The tall beta mutters, fumbling under dollar bills in the register, “I left it here for safekeeping and so she’d see it when opening this morning. He seemed pretty anxious for you to call him.”

The sheet torn from a notebook has the number of John’s main cell phone across the top and another set of carefully inscribed numbers along the bottom. The message is simply for Dean to return his call ASAP. From long years of practice Dean can tell that the co-ordinates are somewhere in the Ohio/Indiana/Kentucky area. He should have known his state of contentment couldn’t last for long. With a heaving sigh, Dean asks if he can use the phone. 

He detours to stick his head into the kitchen.

“Alpha?”

“Hey, Darlin’.” Benny beams.

“I got a message from my Dad.” Dean forces out, “I gotta call him.”

Wiping his hands on a glass-cloth, Benny asks, “You want me to come with?”

Dean does really, but he shakes his head. “Naw, I got this. Going to use the office.”

“Sure, Sugar.” Benny nods slowly. “I’d say Mac could take over in here and give me a break. I’m due one soon. Come find me when you’re done and we’ll rest awhile or go for a walk.”

Dean guffaws. “It’s thirty two degrees outside, only walk I’m taking is home with you later.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Benny grins.

Spirits lifted, Dean steels his courage for the call. Something in his hind brain has his fingers move of their own volition.

“Yo!” A deep voice greets.

“Sam?”

The speaker pulls Sam’s cell away from his mouth but Dean can hear the jesting shout out, “Hey! Brady! Call for your other half! Where’s Sam got to?”

Brady’s oily tongue takes over, “Hello?”

“Hi. It’s Dean, again. Is Sam there?”

“Sam is in class.”

“Oh, okay.” Dean wonders why Sam would leave his cell behind. “Would you tell him…?”

“Yes?” 

Impatience is evident in the young alpha’s sharp cadence. Dean swallows hard. He wanted to be the one to tell Sam. He hasn’t talked to him since forever. 

“Would you tell my brother that I have mated?”

“Congratulations. I’ll pass on the news.”

“Ahem, thanks, and if he wants to call back, I’m outta cell range next couple of days but if he leaves a message or waits…”

“Yes, yes. I’ll tell him. Ciao, Dean.”

“’Kay, thanks Brady.” 

That could have gone better, but at least Dean reached a real person, who’ll let Sam know. He hopes Sammy will be pleased for him, guesses Sam will be glad that he’s got a different alpha if nothing else. The omega takes a moment to remember that only the width of a wall divides him from his mate as he taps in his Dad’s number. While the ringing tone vibrates his eardrum, he does a practice run.

“Hey, Dad. I’m mated.” Dean tells the unconnected call. “I found my alpha and I’m bringing him with me. If you’d like, you can be our witness at a notary office near the hunt.”

There is a click on the line.

“Hey Dad…” Dean begins.

“Dean.” John’s tone is clipped, all business. “Got word of unexplained deaths. Our sort of deal. You get the co-ordinates?”

“Yeah. You get the chupacabra?”

“Finally.” John huffs over the background noise of his truck engine. “Got your messages. Good job ending the revenant.”

Dean smiles privately, gives the handset a pleased squeeze, “Thanks, Dad.”

“Are you on your way?”

In the time it takes Dean to lick his lips, readying to reveal his mating, the brief pause is over.

“Are you still on that island? Dean?” There is a hiss of exasperation. “The rules, Dean. You cover your tracks and you blow outta the location.”

“I had…” Dean tries to interrupt.

“I expect you to rendezvous in 48 hours.”

“Dad.” Dean raises his voice. “I can’t…”

“I don’t wanna hear it.” John growls. “Get your ass to Kentucky.”

“Wait. Dad. I’m on a freaking island.” This conversation is a lot more one-sided than Dean had hoped. 

“Is my omega son mouthing off at me?” John snaps. “I had enough of that behavior from your alpha brother. You listen. You follow my orders.”

Dean grinds his teeth. Using Sam was a low blow. He inhales while his Dad waits for him to fall in line. 

“Look, Dad, there’s no ferry off Gauntlet until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Crap. 72 hours, Dean, no more.” John concedes. “No diversions, and pick up sups and maskers.”

“Dad wait…”

“I need you to be my Beta Rookie Fed partner. Start the meds ASAP.”

“Da…”

“No arguments. 72 hours. 38.2.5. North. 85.20.38 West.”

“Hold up, Dad. I need to tell…”

The line is dead. Dean’s fingers are numb as he hangs up. He treads lightly, as if he is stalking or being stalked, sticks to the walls, wraps his disappointment tight and shoves it down. Standing at the entrance, the swing door leaning against his shoulder, Dean sees his mate dressing a plate with cranberry sauce. Benny’s head turns to find Dean, his lips part in a welcoming smile. Dean draws on a lifetime of keeping up appearances. However to his alpha, Dean’s scent betrays how upset he is. This brave face is a useless façade. Benny plunks the plate onto the pass, grin falling away. He takes Dean by the shoulders, examining under the mask with probing imploring eyes. His hands move to span Dean’s spine, cup the back of his head, pulling his omega in close. The aromas of the kitchen are ambient noise as Dean fills his lungs with the scent of their union. 

“What did he say?” Benny murmurs into Dean’s ear.

“He ordered me to Kentucky.” Dean gulps.

“Just you, Darlin’?” 

Benny’s hand strokes Dean’s back.

“I couldn’t tell him.” Dean hears the words as he utters them, immediately parsing the multiple interpretations, ones that speak of fear of John’s rejection or displeasure with his mating. He is quick to correct. “He wouldn’t let me get a word in. Sammy was right. I’m just his toy soldier. There is a case and I am to go back on sups.”

His chin is lifted by a gentle hand. Benny’s blue eyes are liquid but with a steely core. “No, Mon Cher. No sups.”

Sagging into Benny, Dean experiences relief. He will never put those chemicals in his body again. It would have been a dog fight to stand up to his Dad and insist that he would no longer pose as beta, and possibly it may have been a battle Dean would have lost, at his Alpha-Dad’s command. Benny won’t let that happen. Dean’s heart bursts with a sense of pride and thankfulness that he has found his Alpha-mate.

“Do you want us to meet up with him?” Benny asks carefully.

“There is a case. He needs a partner, otherwise he’d have sent me elsewhere.” Dean chews on his lip, withdrawing a fraction from the hug so he can watch Benny’s reaction. “It’s freaking rotten timing. I told him there’s no ferry until tomorrow, but yeah… I mean… he needs back up…”

“Okay.” Benny nods.

“Okay?” Dean widens his eyes.

“I won’t deny that a more leisurely leaving and journeying woulda been preferable, Sugar, but he’s family. Right?”

There are no words. Dean expresses how awesome his alpha is by planting a spiral of kisses to his neck, cheek, nose, lips.

“You are leaving, leaving earlier for me. Leaving behind your home and your friends.” Dean doesn’t doubt Benny’s affection for him. He thinks Benny might go to the ends of the earth for him, but he worries that he may ask too much, that dragging him into the hunting life might be a step too far.

“You’re thinkin’ too loud,” Benny teases with a smirk. He turns away a moment to take an order slip from Tim’s extended arm. “Mon Cher, I won’t deny that Geoff and I got along, and that Mac has been more than a boss, but Dean, what happened to you… It opened my eyes in more ways than one. This isle is not the refuge I thought it was. And, Sugar, I plain don’t belong here. All my life, everywhere, I’ve never truly belonged. Even back in the good days in Carencro, my diner was on the edge of town, and my relationship with Andrea isolated us.”

Dean’s eyes close a moment. “I hear ya. Belonging is a hard thing to find. ‘Least I’m not dragging you away from paradise.”

Benny huffs a laugh. He ladles three portions of chowder into heavy bowls and puts slices of garlic bread on the side. When he turns back from the pass, his eyes are glassy, “You ain’t hearing what I’m saying. I’ve found where I belong.”

“Huh?” Dean expresses ineloquently.

“You and me, Sugar, we fit, no matter where we are.” Benny squeezes Dean’s arm. “I belong with you, Dean Winchester, and you with me. Let’s saddle your impala and ride to Kentucky, stopping to officially register our mating in Portland.”

“Hell Yeah.” Dean’s grin matches Benny’s for broadness. In the middle of exploring Benny’s lips and teeth with his tongue, he realizes that Benny said he hoped his omega belonged with him, not belonged to him. “You are awesome, and you know I’m awesome, so that means together we’re all sorts of …”

“Awesome.” Benny laughs along with his mate.

Dean steals a second deep and lingering kiss before Benny’s got to get back to the stove. The alpha extols a promise that Dean won’t go far. It’s one the hunter is happy to comply with, taking a corner stool near the service counter so he can catch his mate’s eye repeatedly until last food orders. 

When Benny appears from the staff room, clad in his own clothes, bearing his knife case and final pay packet, a bottle of Johnny Walker is produced at the bar, and toasts are offered.

Mac makes a short gruff speech full of praise and gratitude, with a melancholy lilt that spreads genuinely through the bar. Combined scent changes hit the back of Dean’s throat. Benny is affected too, his few words delivered with a thickened Cajun accent interspersed with Bon Amis and Mercis. Winding their way through Gaunleteers sorry to see Benny go, amid back claps and well wishes, Benny whispers to Dean that he has booked a water taxi for early morning. They can get a head start, meaning the ride to Kentucky won’t be as rushed. 

They lock up the cabin at dawn. Benny bears a huge worn duffel and his crate of belongings. Dean’s got his bag over his shoulder. The taxi could have picked them up at Inner Cove, but beginning their long trek with sodden trousers did not appeal. Benny makes a final silent salute at Mac’s closed up bar, while Dean gives his own two fingered salute to The Lookout before pointedly looking east to avoid another sight of the dive bar. 

A puffed sound of surprise from his alpha gets Dean to shift his gaze. Geoff is standing on the boardwalk, hand on stroller, talking to the waiting older watertaximan. Jonah is there too, attempting to wrangle a young pup away from his boat explorations. The Shields had not been at Mac’s the previous evening. Dean and Benny had said their farewells when giving Jonah his choice of household items. As the newly mated couple closes the distance, Jonah manages to get Daniel off the taxi boat.

“How’d you find out about our dawn flit?” Benny winks as he claps Geoff on the arm. 

Jonah doesn’t let go of his wayward pup’s hand as he gives Dean a one armed hug. 

“Island gossip wire.” Geoff huffs. 

Jonah purses his lips at his mate. “Stephen Gantry, your ship captain…”

The taxi pilot doffs his cap at his passengers. 

Jonah continues, “Stephen’s mate is in the quilting circle with Mom…”

Benny raises his hand, “Say no more, dear omega. Our departure was not a state secret. We are pleased to see you and Geoff.”

Dean nods, “Glad to be able to say goodbye.”

“Not goodbye.” Geoff expresses. He smiles and attempts a bad impression of Benny’s accent, “Surely, Brother, it is au revoir.”

The two alphas share a display of testosterone back clapping that has Dean and Jonah rolling their eyes in unison.

Benny chuckles, “A see y’all later? I guess so.”

A smile is plastered to Dean’s face as his head bobs in false agreement. 

“You’ll visit when you are in Maine again?” Jonah asks hopefully, as he pulls back from gifting Dean with a final hug.

“Damn right we will.” Dean promises. 

He feels shabby as he spouts his well worn parting words. They slide off his tongue with the practice of a boy who has left potential friends behind since he was four years old. The oft said platitudes are bitter here with Jonah, who makes the list of unrealized potential close friendships. Dean has been a creature of the road, not knowing where he’ll be from one season to the next. Down that future road, perhaps they will return to New England, to Maine, and just maybe they’ll contact the Shields and arrange a meet up. However, it won’t be on Gauntlet. Dean will never return to the site of his attack and of Phoenix’s tragic story. 

On their short journey to Mount Desert, Dean can see memories flitting across Benny’s face. Save for the wonderful event of finding his mate, and meeting Jonah, Gauntlet is not a happy place to Dean. That does not mean he can’t offer solace to his mate. Dean scoots closer, wrapping an arm around Benny’s waist and resting his head on his chest.

“You okay, Alpha?”

“Uh-huh, Darlin’” Benny places his arm over Dean’s shoulder, “One life’s gotta end for another to begin.”

“Geez, I’ve mated a philosopher.” Dean ribs.

Benny tilts his head, “Our new life, we begin, young omega? Yes?”

“Hah!” Dean crows, “If you’ve picked Yoda, I get to be Han.”

“Boba Fett, more like, bounty hunter, mysterious….” Benny snickers.

“No freaking way. I’m Han and you’re my Leia.”

“Oh really, Sugar?” Benny emits with a belly laugh. “You gonna get me headphone hair pieces and chase me around our bedroom?”

“I might.” Dean has no intention of it. He likes his alpha masculine and dominant in their bed, but he’s not saying uncle on their joking repartee.

“Lafitte!” Stephen ducks his head out of the wheelhouse. Their bright scents of joy must be infectious because the gnarly boatman chuckles out, “Land ahoy.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” Benny calls back with a grin.

“No, no, no,” Dean shakes his head with amusement. “Don’t cross the streams. Wars or Trek, Alpha.”

“Did you reference Ghostbusters?” Benny quirks a brow. “A lot to teach me, you have, I see.”

“Stop,” Dean bends from the waist, pleading for mercy. “I won’t be able to freaking walk if you keep me laughing like this.”

“I’ll carry you then,” Benny vows, pressing a kiss to his hair.

While Benny settles their fare, Dean throws their bags to the dock of Northeast Harbor and alights bearing the crate. Benny jumps off to join him.

“Where to?”

Dean cocks his head towards the long term parking garage. He can see the shutter is raised, open for the new day. Baby is in there, kept safe from the elements, waiting for his return. His hand itches to rub her dark flank and twitches to feel the wheel in his grasp. He had paid for the first week, so owes only for the additional days. The hunter almost throws his money clip at the attendant as he drops his duffel and races to be reunited with his beloved car.

Expelling a long sigh, Dean pats her trunk before popping it open. His tire iron has been moved but he is satisfied to see that the combination lock to the weapons compartment hasn’t been tampered with.

Pushing his hip against her side, Dean grins. “Hey Baby. D’y’miss me?”

“Should I be worried?” Benny chuckles, coming alongside.

“I can’t wait to hit the road in her.” Dean admits. 

“You got the keys?” 

“What?” Dean wrinkles his brow as Benny puts his hand on the driver’s door handle.

“You want to stow our stuff first?” Benny looks equally nonplussed.

“Do you think you are driving, Alpha?”

“Well, yes, Sugar.” Benny’s brow furrows.

“Ahem. No.” Dean clears that up.

“No?” Benny returns with a light amused huff.

Concern he was overly firm, that his insistence bordered on offensive, makes Dean wince. He can both see and scent that he hasn’t inflicted hurt or evoked rage. He places his hand on Benny’s shoulder. The alpha reaches up to cover it with his palm. 

“I don’t mean you can’t ever.” Dean moistens his lips. “And I know traditional alphas don’t let their omegas get a permit…”

Benny growls at notional traditional alphas. It makes Dean snicker. He shares the sentiment.

“… It’s a long way to the meet up with Dad in Kentucky. We gotta take turns, and my turns might be longer than your turns.”

Benny pulls Dean in for a quick hug. “Don’t nobody know what I did in a previous life to be rewarded with a mate like you?”

That resolved painlessly, they hit the road. Dean gives Benny the ultimate low down on Impala care, driving techniques, and musical accompaniments. By the time they hit I-95, Dean pushes his luck to direct his alpha to listen to his Baby purr. Although Benny complies with admiring words, for the sake of preventing Alpha to Car jealously, Dean finds a classic rock station on the radio and shuts up about the car. It is peachy to be driving down the highway with his alpha alongside. Somewhere beyond Augusta, Dean finds that he is tapping the wheel to the music and belting out _Living On A Prayer_ , much to Benny’s fond amusement.

At a Gas’n’Sip north of Portland, Benny snags a phone directory and engages the clerk in conversation. Seems the most reputable mating notaries are found in the region of Monument Square. Dean’s happy to let Benny flex his alpha via cell phone while he is occupied by purchasing coffees and hot dogs with extra onions. It wouldn’t matter to him if they were registering in the back room of a country law practice, but it does leave a pleased glow that Benny makes a number of calls to get the arrangements to his liking.

Consuming their lunch snacks on the bench seat of Baby, Benny sidles closer to confide that he has booked the first afternoon appointment at Jones, Carter and Nemov in downtown Portland.

Their venue is an upper storey office in an impressive brownstone on Monument Square. 

“Color me impressed.” Dean admits, mounting the thick pile carpeted stair, bumping against his alpha.

Deep hued wood paneling adorns the walls. They are greeted by an impeccably dressed beta when they enter the notaries’ offices. She sits at rich mahogany desk that many a CEO would covet. Dean decides he likes the petite black haired legal secretary when she glances over their casual attire, then welcomes them with a friendly smile and the same enthusiasm he imagines she offers to those arriving dripping in diamonds and Rolexes. 

“Alpha Lafitte?” She queries once she has introduced herself as Caroline Porter.

“Sure am,” Benny answers, his warm tone revealing how pleased he is with their reception. 

“Pleased to meet you and your intended…”

“Dean Winchester.” The omega pushes back the collar of his shirts to show the red mark of Benny’s claim. “Benny’s mate.”

“My congratulations to you both. Thank you for choosing us for the formal solemnization of your union.” She offers her hand and shakes theirs in turn. “We offer from simple registration with one of our notaries to a full wedding package with seating for guests in our large conference room.” 

Dean suspects that she knows they want the basic package but he offers her a smile for her inclusivity. 

“Well, Ma’am, we’re happy to simply put down on record our mating.” Benny replies.

“Witnesses?” Caroline asks as she retakes her chair. 

“Maybe you would…” Dean begins.

“Of course.” She smiles. “It is always a pleasure. One of our partners can stand as the second required witness. Would you mind filling out the basic paperwork?”

Two clipboards are produced. It takes only moments to complete basic personal information and hand over their identification for Xeroxing. 

“You didn’t tell me.” Benny hisses under his breath, jerking his head towards the paperwork.

“Huh?” Dean throws his alpha a puzzled look.

“It’s your birthday, Friday.”

Dean tries to remain dignified but a snort of laughter escapes. “Winchesters don’t do those.”

“Bully for them,” Benny retorts, “You’re leaving this office a Lafitte and we celebrate shit.”

“Yes, Alpha,” Dean smirks, evokes the freedom of being a cheeky shit, “We can celebrate shit.”

“Damn right.” Benny’s vibrating chest betrays how amused he is.

“Alpha Lafitte?” Caroline interrupts. “Have you brought a collar or would you like to choose from our selection?”

Dean’s body thrums in anticipation. This is the moment he gets to select the visible symbol of his mating. He misses Benny’s response as the blood rushes through his ears. They are led along a short hallway to a separate bright room full of glass display cases. Dean barely registers the low glass covered tables of matching rings. He is drawn to the far wall, where the selection stretches from a shelf of emergency twenty dollar plain buckled ones to an alarmed cabinet glinting of gold and platinum damned uncomfortable things that probably have to be sent to a metalworker to be sized.

He reaches back instinctively knowing Benny’s hand will be there. Their fingers interlink.

“Alpha?” Dean’s throat is dry. “What’s my budget?”

“Sugar, I’d love to say limitless,” Benny replies softly, “I want you to have a quality piece that you love. I can stretch to one of the mid-hundreds dollar jewel stud leather ones if you’d like.”

“You doofus.” Dean clicks his tongue, “No sparkles or gold chains, remember?”

The ever so slight release of tension from his alpha’s set shoulders tells Dean that he has plenty to get something awesome with change leftover. His eyes rove over the leather display. Some sit on cushions. Others are showcased on swanlike neck shaped pillars. With a mutter under his breath about power-crazed sonuvabitch alphas, he moves on from heavy duty wide contraptions dripping with D-rings and padlocks. The mates stand together examining midrange offerings. They all look like quality merchandise. The display cards outline guarantees, hand craftwork, organic dyes, non-allergenic eyelets or studs, and choice of closing mechanisms. Turns out you can lace them shut or have locks, hasps, clasps and buckles in all shapes. On top of that there is a bewildering choice of linings from fur, to silk, to freaking handspun wool. 

Dean’s aware that Benny is gauging his reaction, because he is at the same game, hunting for clues in his alpha’s scent, gaze and posture. 

Breaking his no sparkles rule the first one Dean favors is three quarter inch wide deep brown dotted with minimal rhinestone studs. Benny smiles as they share an appreciative look. 

Caroline asks if they want to have a closer view.

Dean shakes his head. It’s lovely but on the feminine side of androgynous and definitely not for a hunter.

Benny points to one made of four rows of ethnic beads with solid green pearls dotting the brown circle. By the squint of his alpha’s eye Dean can tell Benny is visualizing it round his neck. It’s another gorgeous but impractical pick. 

Then he sees it. He blinks, half expecting it will have disappeared into the dimension that houses nice things Dean cannot have. He stares, imagining how it would feel to wear.

“We’d like to look at that one.” Benny requests.

It is one and three quarter inch black soft pliable leather in a subtle chevron design for comfort. The lining is two inch forest green glove leather, creating an attractive slim trimming. The card explains how all these collars are individual pieces, oil tanned, pliable and easy to wear. The buckle is a gorgeous hand forged twisted pewter spiral in the shape of the Greek letter Ω. The edging is finished to be soft and non abrasive. They actually supply a no-chafing promise. Benny reads aloud, while Dean holds his collar in his hands taking its simple beauty and solidity. 

“This one.” Dean offers it to Benny who turns it round in his hands.

Reverently the alpha places the strap loosely around Dean’s neck. He doesn’t close the buckle. Although claimed, it doesn’t feel right to tie the collar until they are officially registered. 

“Darlin’, it’s amazing.” Benny gasps.

“A handsome choice.” Caroline agrees, supplying a mirror for Dean to be astonished that it is truly his image in the glass. 

There is a sudden violent wish that Sammy was there to share the moment, but Dean pushes it away. 

They are interrupted by a buzzer. The beta makes her excuses to allow other clients entry, asking that they return to reception to wait the short while until their ceremony. Benny sits the collar on his lap, as is appropriate. While they wait to be called, Dean breaks with tradition to run his fingertips along the fine stitching, sampling the softness of the emerald lining. 

“Lafitte?” A deep alpha voice calls.

The notary is an older man, broad shouldered in a charcoal gray suit. Caroline rises to join them, telling the official that she has transferred all calls to someone called Heidi. The room they enter is spacious and as richly furnished as the rest of the offices. Two upholstered straight backed chairs sit opposite a rich desk. Another similarly attired alpha, dark haired with a trim beard, younger and serious faced, comes to meet them. This alpha, Brett Jones, will perform the ceremony. Caroline and the older alpha, Kris, will witness. 

Without fuss or wedding extras, the ceremony is brief and simple. Brett comes round to plant his feet in front of the desk and chairs. Their witnesses move to the side. The older alpha bears Dean’s collar to pass over at the correct moment. Dean and Benny face each other and verbally confirm they are not mated to any other. 

A smile plays on Benny’s mouth. Dean can feel a tingle in the epidermis of his lips, nerves wishing to meet his alpha’s soft skin, as his own smile curves upwards. He focuses on Benny’s eyes, his hands, and the curve of his shoulder.

Brett’s voice seems to cross a distance to reach them. “Benjamin Lafitte, do you take this omega to be your mate? Do you promise to care for him, provide for him, guide and cherish him for the rest of your days?”

“I most certainly do.” Benny takes both of Dean’s hands in his and squeezes.

“Dean Winchester, do you come here freely, offering all to your alpha, to commit only to him for all your days?”

The world contains only his alpha. Dean meets his loving gaze. “I freely give myself to you.”

“My Omega.” Benny breathes, leaning in for a much yearned for kiss before the notary can suggest it.

“The collar.” Notary Jones prompts.

Dean stands tall. It is Benny’s hands that tremble as he reverently buckles the handsome collar at the nape. It encloses Dean’s neck in a ring of commitment and love. The weight is less than imagined, the fit snug when Dean swallows but not uncomfortably so. He will feel it constantly, aware of the connection to his alpha at all times, and it is marvelous in every sense of the world.

Benny whispers into the shell of Dean’s ear, “Everyone will know.”

Those words, the sensation of leather on his bare skin, the drying ink of his signature on their mating certificate, melt Dean’s center into a gooey core. 

A complimentary photograph is taken. Dean remembers to beam his joy at the lens, hand fisted into Benny’s jacket, chin proudly raised to show off his collar. The print will be forwarded with the permanent registered mating certificate to Singer Salvage in Sioux Falls. Dean didn’t want to use one of their hunting mail drops for such a precious delivery. Caroline gives them a notarized declaration of their new statuses as legal proof in the meantime.

On the sidewalk Dean notices sets of eyes flick to his neck and then to Benny’s presence. He interprets those passers-by as being envious of his fine alpha. 

“Southbound?” Dean asks, prepared to hit the road.

“Naw, Sugar.” Benny grins. “Least not far. We’ve got a room booked at a nice family run hotel at Old Orchard Beach. It’s got a renowned steakhouse and sea view.”

“How’d you do that when I wasn’t looking?” Dean asks in appreciation of his alpha’s wiliness.

“I talked to people ‘bout somewhere special. They list motels in phonebooks.” Benny is not divulging more detail.

“Uh-huh?” Dean rolls his eyes, “Come on then, let’s go celebrate shit.”

The night exceeds Benny’s promise of special. When they check in at the homey seaside motel, the owners upgrade them to a deluxe room. Their melt in the mouth steak mains are followed by so-good Boston Cream pie. Bellies full, they are guided to prized armchairs next to a roaring fire and treated to on the house Irish Coffees.

When Dean wakes, pleasantly sore, on his stomach, hand splayed on the small of his alpha’s back, in a Californian King with creamy Egyptian cotton sheets, it is to the rippling sound of a gentler ocean over soft sand, and with the knowledge that he is wanted and loved.


	11. Eleven

“Are you sure we got to wear these monkey suits?” Benny asks tugging at the lapel of his inky dark blue jacket, as he drives west along I-64. They are an hour out from Taylorsville, Kentucky, having swapped seats midway from their overnight rest stop at Cumberland. 

“You’re from the insurance company, remember?” Dean answers patiently, rifling through his cassette collection on his lap.

Although John wants Dean to pose as FBI, and beta, the young hunter knows that some travelling alpha salesmen and claims adjusters will bring pupless omega mates on the road with them. He plain does not want to hide his new status from anyone. 

“There to check if imploding liver falls under the terms of their policies.” Benny huffs. “Don’t know a thing about the insurance game, but I trust you. As you said, Sugar, we’ll be the ones asking the questions.”

Dean nods. He notices Benny loosening his white and blue diagonal striped tie another fraction. There’s a smidge of guilt that the ill-fitting suit is due to Dean hustling them out of Hoboken before it got late enough that Benny might reconsider his refusal of Andrea’s offer of a bed for the night. Dropping the cabin key off had turned into a sumptuous lunch at Andrea’s favorite Greek restaurant to celebrate Benny’s mating to a ‘delightful’ omega. If only she knew how un-delightful Dean’s thoughts were, as she jested about how dumping Benny had turned out to be the best thing for them both. There had been barely enough time to get a set of basic hunter fake IDs for Benny in matching family names to Dean’s omega cards. A text to Caleb had set them up an introduction to a Ugandan dude operating out of the back of his pawn store. They paid a premium to pick up two decent badges and a couple of generic IDs before close of business. While they waited Dean pulled Benny into and out of a row of goodwill stores. For his mate, Dean snagged a couple of suits, patent leather shoes, plain white shirts, and generic ties, as well as an awesome find of plumbers’ overalls that could easily transform into a fake alarm company or pest control uniform as needed.

“Excelsior Motel?” Benny checks, interrupting Dean’s thoughts.

“Yep, that’s what Dad’s message said, Southside of town.”

Taylorsville is a small community but more than a single street drive thru. Dean narrows his eyes noticing signs for schools, diners, cops and gas stations. There won’t be any bars, because Taylorsville is a dry community. Three of the liquor-free-zone’s prime citizens have expired from extreme alcohol poisoning since Christmas. 

The motel John chose looks like it is closed for the winter, and due major renovations in the spring. Benny actually scrunches his nose as he swings the Impala onto the grounds, avoiding deep pitted potholes much to Dean’s relief. They have plenty choice regarding parking, only an old pick up and a rusty Taurus show that the place has any sign of life. 

“You sure?” Benny asks with a strong whiff of incredulity, as they both have one hand on door handles to exit in unison.

“You’d prefer the Super 8 back-a-ways, or that whitewashed guesthouse with the black wooden window frames on the opposite side of town.” Dean states before explaining, “This place is cheap and anonymous. Betya they don’t care that Dad’s checked in as Jim Rockford but might hand ‘em a credit card for Max Mendoza if he’s staying an extra week.”

“We could get cooties.” Benny mutters in a low grumble, coming round Baby’s front to bump against his mate.

Dean throws his head back and laughs. “Why’d think we’ve got emergency sleeping bags and blankets?”

The carpet at reception is threadbare but at least the office is toasty warm. The desk is empty, noise of a TV blaring from a room to the rear. Benny dings the bell on the desk with enough alpha force for the metal contraption to make a little leap in reverberation.

“Hey Gents. Y’want a room?” The motel owner grunts, emerging wiping his hands on his gravy stained sweater vest. 

Dean does not want to know what the skeevy dude is wiping off his skin, or what he’s got playing on the TV. Guy has got to be the owner because no one in their right mind would employ him. He begins a curled lip leer at Dean’s scent and features. The lewd eye stops dead at Dean’s neck, pupils dilate, flick to Benny, drop to the counter. 

It is a great effort, one Dean feels should be rewarded later, not to laugh out loud, or dance around the motel showing off his collar.

Benny draws his shoulders back. He has noticed every nuance and is unimpressed. He clears his throat and produces a freshly minted business card.

“We’re looking for Agent Jim Rockford. I believe he is staying at your motel.” Benny taps the card. “Alpha Ulrich from Mutuality Insurance.”

“Huh? The grizzly grump in 14?”

“That’s him.” Dean confirms. 

Benny raises a brow in his direction but refrains from commenting. 

“You and your mate wanna a room?” The guy scratches his armpit. “We got all separate entrances. I got a thick walled mating one, y’know, for heats or whatever.”

“Sounds awesome,” Dean whispers sarcastically for Benny’s ears. “Thick walls.”

“Lars and I may take you up on that,” Benny drawls slowly. 

Dean knows his alpha is trying not to laugh. He gives mental kudos that Benny’s managed to remember that they are Kirk and Lars Ulrich. While Benny listens to a special offer of 7 nights for the price of 6 and makes their excuses, Dean unconsciously rubs along the soft bottom edging of his collar with his thumb and forefinger.

Outside the office Benny leans in blowing hot breath over the hollow of Dean’s throat before kissing where his omega’s fingers have been caressing. 

“You do things to me, Mon Cher.”

“I should hope so,” Dean chuffs, taking his alpha’s hand and leading him down the cracked pavement, seeking Room 14.

Dean picks the lock while Benny blocks the view of anyone driving by. 

The omega steps through the door and over the line of fishing gut his Dad has strung across as a spy catcher. He points to the trip hazard. Benny looks dazed as he takes heed of Dean’s warning. For a moment, the hunter is nonplussed but then he flicks the light switch and tracks his alpha’s gaze.

John has decorated one wall. Precisely 80% of it is devoted to the current mystery in the town. The remainder pertains to where John stands in his eternal quest. Dean casts an eye over the perennial information for any breakthrough however small. Only difference to Hazelton’s wall is a new pin dotting a spot in Indiana and below a new paper cutting about some cattle mutilations in Lafayette. On closer inspection, the events occurred months ago, so probably not their next destination.

Benny’s still gawping.

Dean shrugs. John’s room redecoration must look insane to a civilian. 

“Some of this is in Latin,” Benny gawps at pages ripped and pinned around photos of Taylorville, copies of autopsies, and newspaper columns. “D’you read Latin?”

“Some. Slowly.” Dean chews his lip, “Sam’s fluent.”

He turns over the mattress and jeopardizes his health to look under the bed. John’s journal isn’t there. There’s a loose page in the Gideon Bible on the side table by the pillow. Dean pounces on it like catnip. 

“Ha! Yatzee.” 

“What’d’ya get, Sugar?”

Dean unfolds a single A4 sheet. There is a line sketch with an ‘X’ off the road heading west out of town. “Directions, Alpha.”

_Body curse. Spell. Not witchcraft. Amateur casters. Got a bead on them. McAlpine’s Farm. Turn off Mt Washington Road 3 miles out. Follow me._

“Typical.” Dean huffs. “He wants me here, and then takes off alone. I mean, he said 72 hours,” He checks his watch, “71 hours 20 minutes ago.”

“Your call.” Benny nods. He raps a knuckle against a high school club flyer for a meeting railing against restrictive local county laws. 

Dean joins the dots. “Freaking high school kids and college dropouts playing with fire. What’s this? Footloose meets Hocus Pocus?”

“Are we on the move?” Benny has already turned for the door.

“Yeah, Alpha.” Dean confirms. “They might be dumb kids, but if they’ve got a powerful grimoire, who knows what sort of crapfest is going down?”

Having matched John’s sketch to the local map Dean plucked from the wall display, they find their destination with ease. Dean rolls his Baby to a crawling stop just beyond the muddy entryway to the old farm buildings. McAlpine’s Farm looks like the last McAlpine went to the great farm in the sky sometime around George Bush Senior’s ascension to the White House. The surrounding land sold off to adjoining properties, all that remains is a tumbledown long cabin with derelict out buildings and rotting fences. John’s truck is parked round the side of a three walled previous animal shelter. The low glow of battery powered lighting leaks out from between slatted cabin windows. 

Dean and Benny slide into synchronized hunting mode again. Dean jerks his head to the left, getting Benny to take point, as he eases gingerly up to the door. There are missing and loose boards. Benny points with his rock salt filled shotgun to a darkened rotten one by Dean’s boot. The omega quirks his lips in gratitude. He squints at the boarded over window. Benny heads to it. The alpha raises one finger. He mouths _and one tied up_

The hunter hopes the one tied up is their Kevin Bacon and not his Dad, but either way the numbers are in their favor. There is only one suspect and three badass hunters.

Benny approaches. Dean’s right beside him, testing the door with his shoulder. It swings open with an ear splitting creak of rusty hinges. So much for subtle entry.

There is no foyer. The door opens straight into a living area. There’s been redecoration going on here too. Old beer cans and signs of drug use litter the floor, much of it decaying with age. A freshly painted inverted pentagram dominates the far wall. It’s a new enough addition to stand proud against the dirt. The whole place reeks of decay, mould and teenage parties gone bad. Those scents are clouded over by alpha fear and rage, spiked with fresh urine and blood. 

John’s got a young curly haired brunet alpha bound to an old chair. By the bloody lip and nose, the hunter has been working on him a while. With a flick of his fingers to stay back, John acknowledges Dean’s presence. However he is completely focused on his prey, doesn’t break away for a moment.

Using his voice to demonstrate his superior alphaness to his bewildered captive, John demands, “Who gave you the grimoire?”

Dean is reminded of gazelles pinned by lions.

Not answering fast enough, the kid alpha gets a backhanded crack from his inquisitor.

“We found it.” The boy’s voice quavers. He spits a glob of bloodied spittle.

“Who gave it to you? When? Where? What color were their eyes?” John’s fist pounds down on the arm of the chair, slamming knuckles into the back of the dude’s hand.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Man.” It comes out as very un-alpha-like squealing. “I swear we found it buried under the floorboards.”

“Where?” John snarls.

“Here. I swear.” Amid the stench of fear there is a whiff of honest desperation or desperate honesty. “We found it here. The night school broke up for the holidays.”

“Dean?” John steps back but doesn’t turn round. “How about you go round up Drew’s little omega girlfriend?”

“No!” Drew roars, his alpha showing as he demands, “Not Patti. She knows nothing. She wouldn’t even come out here.”

“You are a lying shit.” John hisses. “Maybe seeing Patti tied up…”

“No! I swear, Mister. I swear on my Momma and Poppa. We didn’t know. We only wanted to party. Didn’t know the stupid chant would work, that it would do that to people. I mean we felt sick, didn’t know how to stop it.”

Drew sags in his bonds. John nods. He has got the whole story. 

“I’ll show you.” 

Drew looks up, as John douses lighter fuel over a mangy falling apart leather bound book with a goat’s head cover, and sets it alight.

“Dean.” John instructs calmly. “Guess you’d better let our amateur witch outta his bonds.”

Dean comes forward, passing his Dad. Benny stays under the door frame. God only knows what he thinks of his first, pretty tame, introduction to interrogation. Dean kneels down to slice through the electrical tape around Drew’s ankles. 

“Freaking school boy spell casters,” Dean chuckles under his breath. 

John got his eye on the book which is slow to burn. He crouches. The seasoned hunter pours a measure of salt onto the smoldering heap before adding more gasoline to create an indoor evil-purging pyre. 

As soon as Dean has slit the tape binding Drew’s bruised arms to the chair, the young alpha scarpers, feet sliding from under him as he stumbles as fast as he can for the exit. Benny stands aside to let him flee. 

“You took your damned time.” John comments as he rises to full height, wiping his hands on his jeans. He tilts his face up, scenting the air. Now that fear-stinky Drew is gone, beneath the sulfurous ash of destroyed magic, John can perceive a change in his son’s scent and maybe the presence of new strange alpha.

Dean turns to face his father, conscious of the warm leather encircling his neck. 

John’s eyes bulge. “What. The. Fuck. Is. That?”

Dean lifts his hand, fingertips ghost the green trim. “My collar.”

“Your motherfucking what?” John surges forward making a grab for Dean’s neck as if he could rip it from his skin. 

Dean dodges backwards, putting the rickety chair between them.

“What the fucking hell have you done now?” John rages.

“And this is my Alpha.” Dean is a million times thankful that he is not facing John’s shocked reaction alone. Benny is closing the distance between them with blessedly long strides.

John swivels, looks Benny up and down. The younger alpha is tense, ready to fight or make peace. As if John’s brain is having trouble comprehending Benny’s presence, he zeros in on Dean. It’s like the older hunter’s perception filter is blocking out the alpha who stands with his son.

“So what? You’re mated? Gonna give up the family business for some stray you picked up on the road, or on that island? Gonna stop saving people to put your own selfish wants first?”

Dean gulps. His eyes prickle and a lump swells in his throat. Is it overly selfish to want a mate, a family of his own?

“Hold up, Alpha Winchester.” Benny rumbles from his spot. “If there is one thing my Dean ain’t, it is selfish.”

“Your Dean?” John gawps.

“My Dean.” Benny repeats firmly. “We come to share news of our mating.”

“Please Dad,” Dean’s chest shudders, waiting for John’s judgment.

His father blows air through his nostrils like a bull challenged. His voice is thick with sarcasm, “What did you expect? Balloons? Trumpets? Yipikaye?”

“I’d’ve thought you might congratulate your firstborn pup.” Benny’s voice is solid, firm, steady. Steady enough to hold Dean together.

“Congratulate him? For ruining his life as a hunter? For falling into being useless…”

“Dad!” Dean doesn’t want to hear this. He knows he has rarely pleased his father enough for praise but to be damned like this in front of his alpha is cringe inducing.

“What are you going to do, Dean? Sit on your butt and spew out pup after pup for this stranger?”

“If I did,” Dean raises his chin high, displaying his collar and the vestige of his pride, “then those pups would be your grandchildren.”

John blanches. His Adam’s apple rises and falls. “I never wanted this for you.”

“But what about what I want? Hell, what I need.” Dean exclaims, “I need this. Need Benny. Dad, it’s who I am.”

“I don’t know you.” John mutters.

With an effort to begin again, the omega straightens his back and looks his Dad in the eye. “I’m Dean Winchester Lafitte, and this is my alpha.” 

“I don’t understand,” John’s rage drains away from both his voice and scent, replaced by a confused tone, that makes Dean’s ears perk up. “Why’d you come off your sups, Son? You were a great beta hunter. Now look at you, stuck with this alpha.”

It is Benny’s turn to fume. Dean can sense it like invisible lightning strikes. 

“No Dad. Benny is my mate.” Dean insists. The situation obviously bears repeating. “Mate, Dad. I am mated, claimed, collared and solemnized. And who said anything about freaking giving up hunting? I mean, I’m not gonna hunt when I’m with pup, but Benny was my partner on Gauntlet. We ended the Angiak as a team.”

Benny wraps an arm round Dean’s waist. They come round the chair, removing the barrier. They stay an uneasy distance away from John. Benny’s moves to take Dean’s hand in his. Touch settles stewed up nerves inside.

“Dean, wake up,” John squints at them both. “You know this guy like what? A week?”

“How long did you know Mom?” It spews out of Dean’s mouth before he press his lips together to prevent it.

The slap across his cheek comes with cracking swiftness. It’s not an uncommon response to back talking his Dad, but for it to have happened in front of his alpha is humiliating. In the seconds it takes Dean to clear his head, Benny’s got John pinned against the wall, growling, his large hand pressing on his Dad’s throat. 

Dean can hardly believe that Benny has retaliated on his behalf, put himself on the line for his mate, stood up to John in the blink of an eye. Thing is, this could get nasty. John is a dirty experienced brawler but Benny’s got pure protective instinct on his side.

“Alpha,” Dean steps closer. His cheek is stinging. He has bitten the inside of it. He ignores the discomfort, focuses on his mate. He pushes away his peripheral awareness of how John is holding his body, ready to spring with a sneering expression spreading across his reddening face. “Alpha, my Alpha… I think he got the message.”

“You. Will. Never. Lay. A. Hand. On. Dean. Again.” Benny snarls, releasing his arm from John’s windpipe. He shakes his hand in the air as if it had touched something icky.

Dean’s rooted to the spot. John’s face is defiant.

“We’re leaving.” Benny reaches for Dean’s hand.

John shouts at them. “You walk out that door, don’t you ever…”

The words shock Dean. They steal his breath, stab his heart, and catapult his mind back to another cabin…

“Stop! Please. Stop Dad.” Dean beseeches, eyes shining, breath shuddering, leaning his upper body forward. 

Miracles do happen because John goes silent mid-sentence. 

“Don’t say it, Dad. Don’t say those words to another son. You can’t be a family of one. Please don’t do this to yourself.” 

John’s mouth is agape. He looks at Dean, examines him. Dean slinks closer to Benny. He’s unsure what comes next. Being more enveloped in his alpha’s scent and aura offers a pillar of support, something to stop his knees jellifying. 

It is Benny who restarts time, breaks the vacuum. The alpha tightens his grip on Dean’s arm, squeezing everything that needs no words, before lifting the veil of silence.

“Alpha Winchester. I’d sure like you to remain part of your son’s life, but if you are, then you will treat Dean with respect. We are mates and that’s not going to change. Other thing not changing is Dean’s not going to fake being beta again.”

“And what if I need a beta partner?” John snaps back.

“You could ask Travis, Caleb or Bobby?” Dean shrugs.

“But not you.” John shakes his head with exaggerated slowness. “How do you know? What if this is a mistake?”

Dean gulps around an iron ball that has lodged in his throat. “Then it’s my mistake. But this isn’t wrong. This is so many kinds of right I can’t tell ya, Dad.”

“And you,” John swings to laser in on Benny, eyes vicious with broiling alpha, “What if you change your mind? What happens then? He’s claimed now, bitten and frigging collared.”

Benny’s calm measured tone is full of threat. It chills Dean’s spine. “Don’t speak of our union in such a manner. My life changed when Dean entered it. Everything up to that moment vanished. We came together. Found each other. Found our mates in each other. There ain’t nothing that would drag me away from him.”

There is a pause. John scrubs a hand over his mouth and bearded jaw. Dean nuzzles into the wool sleeve of Benny’s coat. He can’t bring himself to care if this omega-mate reassuring act damns him further in his father’s eyes.

“Being openly omega, I never wanted that for you.” John sighs in defeat.

They’ve gone in a circular argument. Dean reads all the years of disappointment his father feels that he sired an omega son, but he hears also in those words that his Dad cares for him, that he never wanted him to face stigma or the sort of trouble he got into on Gauntlet. He takes a deep breath.

“Dad, I am omega. It’s who I am, who I always was.” He repeats, hoping that it might sink through his father’s Winchester stubborn skull. “And I’m mated, Dad. I’m not alone.”

John inclines his head slightly to show he heard. He addresses his new son-in-law, “What’d you do?”

“Chef.”

“You’ll keep him in pie, whatever else.” John’s huff is almost mirthless, yet Dean grasps tight on a glimmer of conciliation.

“Where’s the next case?” Dean chances.

“I can’t travel with you like this, Dean.”

It’s like another smack. “What?” 

“I can’t stop you following, but I can’t hunt with you.”

“Dad?”

“No, Dean.”

Dean recoils. He had thought there had been a chink in the armor, but it looks like not. At least he’s not being told never come back.

“You sure?” Benny’s eyes narrow. “You want us to go our separate ways?”

“You’ll take care of him?” John asks as he kicks a boot through burnt paper ashes. 

A single trail of water trickles down Dean’s cheek. Benny sounds choked as he confirms that he will.

“Good.” John nods, turning his back, hitching his shoulders in his leather coat. 

Dean is hit by how alone his Dad is, how his quest for vengeance sets him apart, even from his sons. It doesn’t excuse or ameliorate cruel words, harsh treatment, and all the bad that has happened since his Mom died, but in this moment Dean sees everything his Dad has sacrificed. He vows that he won’t repeat his father’s mistakes. Dean’s pups won’t live this life.

“Dad.” Dean calls out as John’s hand pushes the cabin door. John doesn’t turn, but he halts his step. “Bobby’ll know where we are, you know, if…?”

The last view Dean gets is of John’s hand raised in farewell salute. Benny’s arms enfold him. He hears the truck engine rev with his face buried in his alpha’s chest.


	12. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not completely satisfied with this chapter. I have been tweaking it for days and have decided to post after my latest re-edit. It takes the story where I want it to go, but I would like to apologise that it may not be of the same standard as previous chapters.

Dean races out of Taylorsville, Impala tires squealing, barely hitting asphalt. He pops Meatloaf into the cassette player with such violence that the tape gets looped, warbling to a halt mid-Bat Out Of Hell. Benny diplomatically says nothing, using a pencil to wind the album back to health. With an assessing eye he notes the storm cloud darkening his mate’s features. Dean’s teeth grind together. He can’t speak, can’t reassure his alpha, can’t explain that he needs to get distance from the tumbledown cabin and ruin of his relationship with his father. Somewhere before they cross state lines into Indiana, Benny’s fingers grip above Dean’s knee and stay there. When it doesn’t hurt to breathe anymore, he permits his right hand to snake down and cover the solid weight of Benny’s. 

Shy of Columbus, Dean makes a sharp late turn for a roadhouse. He attempts to drink the bar out of Jose Cuervo. He wants to forget, wants to be numb and blind with liquor. He slams the shot glass inverted onto the counter and calls for another.

Benny’s hand appears, out of another dimension, the less likely to be real one, the one where he is valued and loved. Dean fixates on individual hairs that peep out from Benny’s shirt cuff. He is still wearing the god-awful goodwill store suit. Somehow it is the same day as the one when they laughed and sang across Maryland into Kentucky.

“No more.” The alpha is firm.

Raising his head Dean sees conflict dance across the face of the hardened alpha chick bartender. Her sinewy arm twitches, unsure whether to pour or defer to another alpha’s demand. Benny’s arm slides over Dean’s shoulder blades. The alpha bartender’s eyes soften as she sees Dean lean his head against Benny’s bicep. Her lips quirk. She addresses Benny, “Yes, Alpha.”

A whine escapes as Dean tilts his head towards Benny, “Leave meh get drunk.”

“No, Dean.” The arm squeezes, tugs the omega gently from his perch.

“I wanna be drunk, wanna be useless ‘n’ dumb, cos that’s me, now, y’know, now, Alpha, I’m a fuckin’ mess, a sorry dumb mess.” His feet slide under him, betraying him. “Can’t even stand up like a good son, dumb Dean.”

“Stop.” 

Benny’s hands brace him. The alpha holds his upper arms, stands straight in front on a separate stone flag. 

“Like islands,” Dean remarks aloud, “Other island, you got the star prize, Alpha Island like Dad, and Sammy who forgot me, and I got this one.” He looks at his boots, one is turned in, toes pointing at the middle of his other foot, “No good….”

“No.” Fingers press in, hard enough to bruise. 

Dean gulps. Maybe now it comes. He braces for a smack across his cheek. A crack to bring him back to his senses, to express disapproval, to teach his dumb omega ass how to behave. 

Benny’s forehead meets Dean’s. They stand co-joined at the brow. The same air fills their lungs. The hit never comes. Dean inhales his mate’s scent which is heavy with spiced worry. He searches for anger and disappointment but can’t place them. 

Benny’s hand moves. It lifts from his arm, meets Dean’s jaw, and softly cups his cheek. His alpha’s thumb strokes tender motions to the skin above Dean’s collar. 

“Mon Cher…” It is a whispered benediction.

Dean closes his eyes. They remain an island, but now complete and together, in a sea of washed out world-around-them. Inside his body the tequila makes Dean’s head rock on tossed waves, like the choppy seas around Gauntlet. Other patrons, the bar, the walls, all fade away. 

“Darlin’?” Benny requests his attention. “I refuse to listen to you belittle and demean your wonderful self.”

Dean’s eyes flicker. Although intended to comfort, the message stirs pain and clenches Dean’s heart. 

“I’m freakin’ not…”

“You are.” Benny argues. 

Dean misses Benny’s thumb when it lifts from his neck. Instead his alpha’s pointer finger presses with intent on Dean’s lips. 

“No badmouthing. No repeating of cruel vile insults. I won’t hear them and you will not utter them in my presence.”

Dean gulps, wide-eyed into his alpha’s sincere blue pupils. 

“Because they ain’t true, Sugar. They ain’t. I am so sorry that you had to listen to that bullcrap, but no more.”

“No more, Alpha.” Dean parrots. He’s not quite sure that his alpha mate opinion is sound, but it lays down a blocking layer of shrink wrap over the broiling vat of long learned self-hate that is housed in Dean’s belly. 

“Come on, Darlin’” Benny recommences their departure from the roadhouse.

Moving isn’t a great idea. Tequila and leg co-ordination are mutually exclusive circles on a Venn diagram of intoxication. When he tries to concentrate on walking, a cloud of numbness fuddles his brain. Oblivion approaches, like the undercarriage of a big fat eider duck, plumage filling his head like unspun cotton. 

Dean titters, wobbling into Benny’s side, “I wanna be a duck.” He slurs, “Ducks dunno how good they have it.”

His feet leave the ground. Blinking at the sudden motion, Dean realizes he is in a fireman’s carry when the icy night air hits his butt before his face. 

“Come on, Quackers,” Benny chuckles, “We’re getting you outta here and finding a bed to sleep off that liquor.”

Hung over his alpha’s shoulder, dignity shelved, Dean sees the ground moving in waves, which pings his nose to the salty homey earth of his mate’s scent palate. Before everything goes black, he murmurs, “You smell yummy.”

He wakes feeling like the inside of a road-stop crapper. He groans hoarsely, throat parched as the Atacama, barely registering the monotone décor of a modern motel. As he stumbles to the toilet bowl to be reintroduced to Jose Cuervo, out of the corner of his eye he notes with warm approval that Benny lay down salt lines without prompting. He lifts his head from evacuating his stomach contents. Benny’s there, already dressed in jeans and his gray Henley, while Dean holds onto the porcelain for dear life. His mate crouches down beside him. Dean braces for disapproval of his drunken ass, but Benny isn’t there for condemnation. He carries Dean back to bed, tucks him in, provides cool iced water and a flannel for aching head. 

“Y’love me.”

Benny huffs.

“’m sorry.” Dean gulps, “Don’t leave me.”

“I ain’t going nowhere.”

“Good.” Dean sags into the pillows, relief that his alpha isn’t running for the hills spreads like anti-anxiety meds through his bloodstream. His dad would have dumped his ass, either left behind comatose or hung-over and locked out on the pavement. Running his hand down the soft cotton of Benny’s sleeve, Dean has irrefutable evidence that his alpha is a very different man to his father.

“There are better ways to, I dunno, process shit.” Benny cards a hand through his short hair and sighs. “You could talk to me.”

Dean drops his gaze to the edge of the bedside table and his collar resting by the lamp, where his alpha must have reverently placed it after undressing his comatose drunken mate. Sam used want to talk, used to say he wasn’t a baby and that Dean could tell him shit, but mostly Dean didn’t load his little brother down with his troubles, and now Sam doesn’t want to talk to him at all, ever.

“Or not.” Benny hums sadly, twisting away to stand up.

“No!” Dean blurts, flailing his arm out to grab Benny’s shirt sleeve, afraid his alpha thinks that he has lost Dean’s trust. “I mean, yes!”

Benny’s lips twitch, while Dean rambles on, “I’m used to dealing alone.”

His hand is caught in Benny’s warm one. “You’re not alone now.”

Shuffling sideways across the king, Dean makes room for his alpha to join him. 

“Where are we, Alpha?” The omega whispers conspiratorially into the curl of Benny’s ear.

With a chuckle Benny tells a tale that makes Dean wince, of being spread across the back seat of his Baby, of check in for two at this decent motel, and a dreadful rendition of Stairway to Heaven that made the lights turn on in both adjoining units before Dean’s hind brain recognized Benny using his alpha voice to tell him to hush. 

Thus Dean spends his twenty fourth birthday in a motel off I-65 in Franklin, Indiana, being plied with OJ, pain meds, and a trash can puke bucket. Benny holds him, keeps the curtains closed, hangs the do-not-disturb sign on their door, and generally proves to be a godsend. 

It’s a day of wallowing self pity. With a level of patience Dean didn’t know alphas could possess, Benny tends his mate through it all from choked barfing to sweat beaded brow, and Dean loves him for every minute of it.

When Dean finds light, motion and sound aren’t the worse things in the universe, his alpha guides him to the bathroom. It is heaven to brush away the scummy skunk taste. Benny helps him into the shower and tenderly cleans his hangover stinky body. There is some caressing which naturally progresses to grinding and heaving under hot spray. Benny’s hand spans their erections, stripping and jerking them off in unison, sating their need, allowing Dean to sag satisfied against his mate, be swaddled in a giant towel and returned to rest on soft bed covers. 

By evening, Dean is sitting upright, picking the healthy out of a salad burger and slurping on a thick chocolate milkshake.

Benny’s got a portion of cheese mayo fries, grumbling under his breath something about a Canadian poutine recipe he’d been perfecting for Mac’s Bar.

“There is somethin’ I don’t like.” Benny says gravely.

Dean raises a brow. He doesn’t think his alpha is talking about their takeout. He inches his body up the mattress, straightening his back to brace for impact.

“I don’t like credit card fraud.”

Bottom lip falling open, Dean gapes at his alpha’s scruples about a crime that he is so inured to, it has become part of his normal transient way of life.

“I mean,” Benny reasons, “Either the good folks who own this motel won’t get paid, or else Crosby Young’s gonna be stressed out over his credit charges.”

A snorted laugh escapes Dean before he can prevent it. “We take from the credit card companies. Crosby Young ain’t real. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, y’know Alpha.” 

There must be residual alcohol in his bloodstream because without the buffer of cassette accompaniment he attempts to serenade his alpha, “Think about how many times I have fallen, Spirits are using me larger voices callin', What heaven brought you and me cannot be forgotten.”

Benny bends from the waist to meet Dean’s lips. When they part from the deep kiss, the alpha smile is gentle. “You know Dean, that song always called to me. Sailing out on Southern seas, but hearing it from you, that’s something special.”

Dean ducks his eyes, sure his cheeks are flaming from his out of tune rendition and corresponding freely given praise.

“Doesn’t change my view on fraud, Darlin’.” Benny says without condemnation, “Once we get set up, find employment, no dodgy crap that could land our asses, more importantly your ass, in jail.”

With a nod, Dean agrees. It was always a risky business, one that skated close to the law on occasion, meaning midnight flits out of towns with Sam bawling his nerdy eyes out in the back seat, over school buddies or test scores left behind. 

“Alpha?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we do it one more time?” He seeks his alpha’s okay. He doesn’t want deception to enter his mating, but a part of Dean would carry out this plan behind his back if he was forced to.

“What?” Benny narrows his eyes.

“I wanna give Bobby some names…” Dean bites down on his bottom lip, releasing it from between his teeth he continues, “For his top secret contact who sets up stuff for hunters or messes with credit scores. Y’know, Bryson, Littman, The Lookout…”

The beaming grin and way Benny slaps his thigh, makes Dean break out a toothy smile.

“Sure thing, Sugar. I’m all on board, and I got the full names of the others there that night. I only wish it was their faces we were grinding into the dirt not their finances.”

“Ways and means,” Dean clicks his tongue, more than satisfied with his alpha’s approval and the prospect of knowing the scum on Gauntlet will get at least a measure of their just desserts.

They hit the road the following morning, travelling north through a snow white world, stopping only to eat or switch seats, aiming to make Sioux Falls before midnight. They stumble to Bobby’s front door, chilled and worn, and are welcomed with open arms. At least, Bobby Singer’s version of open arms, which involves silver knives and prepared measures of rotgut spiked with holy water. 

“This is him?” Bobby addresses Dean.

“My Alpha.” Dean confirms, shifting his weight from one leg to the other from cold and nerves.

Bobby hums deep in his throat. Benny meets his steady gaze, while snaking his arm into Dean’s bent elbow.

Bobby nods once. “Scent combination is good. Get in here and shut that door. It’s as cold as a witch’s tit out there.”

Once coats are shucked, Bobby pumps Benny’s hand. He slaps Dean’s back. The repeated beats of acceptance and familial warmth are more than Dean can take, and he turns his head to hide how affected his is. Benny knows. Dean knows that Benny knows, and he is another level of grateful that his alpha makes little of his upwelling emotions. Benny helps Dean out of his coat and slings an arm around his shoulders while Bobby updates them on his latest hunt. Mid-flow on a rascally poltergeist that was tormenting a beta couple over in Missouri, Bobby looks from one Lafitte mate to the other, taking in how exhausted they are. The new mates are clung together, holding each other upright. Grumbling about the goddamn foolishness of John Winchester driving off his pups, Bobby shows his guests directly to the back bedroom. Dean hasn’t the energy to find any argument to defend his father. They are bade a good night with an admonishment to keep the noise down. There is no danger of disturbing their beta host. Dean collapses face down on the comforter, only shuffling to his side when Benny’s strong arms wrap round to hold him close.

Being at Bobby’s is both great and weird. It is awesome to be in a place where Dean doesn’t have to put on a game face. At times though, he feels like he has entered a bizarro-world version of the salvage yard. Bobby and Benny can both see that they are united in their regard for Dean, but they are wary of the other, the unknown element in Dean’s family circle. They remind Dean of wolves pacing in the snow, trying to divine their place in a new hierarchy. There are the moments when Dean catches his surrogate uncle making sidelong glances at his collar. In the past, the beta had expressed his opinion in Dean’s hearing about the collaring of omegas being a symbol of both submission and oppression. Dean can see the older hunter is struggling to understand how and why he has embraced being so openly claimed by Benny. 

Part of Dean wants to place three glasses on Bobby’s table and break the tension with a ‘talk’, another part wants Bobby to call them out on their situation and plans for the future, but the greatest part of the omega is sore and bruised after his confrontation with John. He can’t take another clusterfuck. If Bobby and Benny blew up at each other, Dean couldn’t, he just couldn’t. 

So he doesn’t intervene, and it turns out, surprisingly to be the right choice. Bobby mellows as he sees how fondly Benny looks at Dean and how tenderly he treats him. The hunter permits Dean’s alpha to cook hearty winter meals in his kitchen. In the evenings after eating with beers in their hands, Benny is receptive to being shown basic lore books by their resident expert. After a long day giving Baby a tune up, Dean comes downstairs fresh from his shower, to overhear Bobby talking about his deceased mate Karen. That’s when he knows Benny’s in. He wishes that one day Benny and John will able to raise a glass to Mary’s memory, but he’ll take this with a glad heart.

Finally Bobby addresses his last quibble. Dean’s got his head buried in laundry, loading their sheets into Bobby’s old spin dryer. 

“Did he insist on it?” Bobby opens.

Dean swallows, sensing more profoundly the warm supple leather round his neck. He deliberately plays dumb. “Laundry duty?”

“Idjit,” Bobby huffs affectionately, “You know what I’m getting at. Did he, Dean? Was it a deal breaker? You know you don’t have to wear it under my roof?”

“I love it.” Dean gulps, rising to his feet. Words flow quickly, almost if he is afraid that what Bobby has to say will take this from him. “It’s my collar. All mine. I chose it. I wanted it.”

Bobby nods slowly. “You don’t need it to prove you are an omega.”

“I want it.” Dean repeats. “Alpha offered me rings, but I didn’t want ‘em. I won’t hide anymore. It doesn’t oppress me. It has freed me.”

“Once you’re sure, Son.” Bobby pats his arm.

After the fateful laundry talk, they fall into a routine. Dean helps out about the house and auto shop. Benny takes over cooking duties full time. The young alpha embraces being Bobby’s new hunter recruit, reading texts the beta recommends, taking time to process them, and discussing the contents like a star pupil. Dean helps too, setting up a tin can shooting range in the snowy yard to improve Benny’s aim with the Impala’s store of shotguns, crossbows and sidearms. Bobby’s salvage business is slow and his hunter phones are quiet. Winter settles in for a final week of continuous snow. It paints the junkers in white, muffles the sounds of outside, and insulates them from the wider world. There is an air of hiatus, of waiting for the weather to break, a case to land in their laps, or the arrival of Dean’s heat.

 

++++++++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSPN+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


	13. Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Knotting and all it entails.

“I got a live one!” Dean crows. 

Folding the previous Wednesday’s edition of the Denton Record Chronicle, he waves it like a beacon and launches bodily from his kitchen seat to spring upon Benny’s fundamental Latin for Hunters lesson. His alpha swivels round with a broad smile for Dean’s gusto, while Bobby raises his brows. 

“Dean Lafitte, is that from my store of newspaper subscriptions?” Bobby narrows his eyes.

“Ahem, yeah.” Dean winces sheepishly, “I thought I’d get a head start, coz of y’know, how much time you’re spending showing Alpha the ropes.”

“And this head start includes putting dips on hunts you fancy?” Bobby’s tone is full of amusement, as he rocks back in his chair, barely keeping the corners of his lips from twitching.

“Yeah, kinda?” Dean’s tongue darts out to moisten his bottom lip, “Sorta thought Benny and I could take care of it.”

“So now you’re saying you’re going stir crazy after a month under my roof?” Bobby teases.

“Ah Bobby,” Benny drawls easily but with a light touch of admonishment, “I say we let Dean have his moment. What you catch, Darlin’?”

His alpha pushing back his chair, exposing his lap, is enough invitation. Dean plunks his butt sideways and spreads the short article over the Latin primer. His words come fast, spirits lightened at the prospect of this case.

“Old house, vacant, rumored to be haunted, teens challenge each other to sleepover…”

“Par for the course,” Bobby huffs, “Why’d it get in the papers? Why d’ya think it’s more than rumor?”

Dean taps the newsprint, grinning, “They’ve condemned it, pulling the place down, and now respectable folks are reporting strange noises, and guy from the clearance crew, who went to assess it, got a mighty crack in the head from a falling beam…”

Benny enquires, “Wouldn’t demolishing the house get rid of the ghost?”

Dean and Bobby shake their heads simultaneously. The older hunter speaks first, “One of the nastiest vengeful no-good spirits I ever took out was linked to a new multi-story office block in Denver, built on the site of a convict’s lynching.”

“Could make it worse,” Dean agrees, “Sounds like condemning the house might have angered it, or maybe it made the news because more people are taking note of an old building’s spectral noises?”

“Any clues of who or what you’re dealing with?” Bobby cranes his neck to read the article upside-down.

Dean nods, “Vietnam vet, Alpha Lomb, came home from the war. He died accidently while fixing up the house. His mate never recovered. Beta lady, no pups, she ‘took to her bed’ and was found dead when locals broke into the house weeks later. They say it’s her ghost, still calling out for her alpha.”

“Mais, another sad tale,” Benny clicks tongue, “Are all hunts based on tragedy?”

Bobby shrugs, “Something’s gotta turn ‘em vengeful or get ‘em to linger.”

“But hey, Alpha, don’t worry,” Dean pipes up, “Lotta monsters aren’t sad, just angry dangerous motherfuckers.”

“You want to get there before they flatten the joint?” Bobby asks.

Dean nods. For Benny’s benefit he adds, “She could freak out and start killing, or take up residence at some poor innocent neighbor’s home, or at the graveyard, or anything.”

“We gotta hustle there?” Benny wraps his hands round Dean’s ribs, maneuvering him so they both stand up.

“Not this minute, Alpha,” Dean leans into his mate’s space. “The accident delayed demolition. We’ve got a few days, but we’ll need some research time – talk to the injured guy, look up where Beta Lomb is planted…”

“Are we digging up a body?” Benny asks with a mix of wariness and eagerness.

“Uh-huh,” Dean smirks, “We’ll get our hands dirty on this one.”

“You want me to come?” Bobby volunteers.

Dean knows Bobby’s offer is honest. He considers how there are phones to be manned and no way this job requires three hunters. Benny stays shtum, leaving the decision up to Dean. His alpha’s silence puffs out Dean’s chest at the confidence Benny places in him.

“Naw, Bobby, we’re good.” He winds his fingers into Benny’s. “And wait for it… Guess where we are going?”

“Texas.” Bobby deadpans.

Dean chuffs a single laugh, “Bonham. Bonham, Texas.”

Bobby shakes his head at Dean’s enthusiastic sniggering.

“Dumping our John Bonham IDs for the duration,” Dean continues to grin like a loon. “We’re going on a Zep inspired hunt.”

“Darlin’, if this hunt keeps you smiling like this, we can detour via Paige, Texas and I’m pretty sure there is a Jones in Oklahoma.”

Dean bumps against his alpha. 

“Anywhere,” Benny mutters. He cups Dean’s jaw, gently caresses moist lips against Dean’s chapped ones. Their tongues dance adagio, sweeping tenderly.

Bobby’s cough reintroduces reality. “Before y’start your rock gods tour of America, y’might wanna take the mating action to the bedroom.”

“Sorry, Bobby.” Dean turns his head and bites down on his lip that had just been tugged by Alpha’s teeth.

“No, you’re not sorry, Idjits.” Bobby snorts, plants his hands on the table and rises.

“Stay, Bobby,” Benny raises his palm. “Dean and I are going to pack.”

“And by pack, we mean have sex.” Dean calls with a cheeky laugh, as he pulls his alpha up the staircase, away from Bobby’s shout of protest.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSPN++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

They depart for Bonham on a crisp clear day, big skies devoid of cloud, promise of spring in the air. Snow dwindles from emergency lane filled banking, to white mounds at verges until finally somewhere around Kansas City, Dean finds he is driving on completely snow free highways. They swap seats, nap while the other is at the wheel, halt for roadside diner meals, and stop to stretch their legs under a bright Milky Way. 

Bonham is waking for a new day when the Impala purrs down Main Street. Dean uses his extra sensory food perception to zero in on a diner proclaiming to be famous for its breakfast specials. Over sensational Black Bean Migas with fresh tortillas and crispy bacon, Benny bonds with the owner via recipe talk. This allows Dean to engage the couple at their adjoining table in his own investigative conversation. Turns out Alpha Minchin, the unfortunate building inspector, remains in hospital over in McKinney. 

Using newspaper reporter cover stories, they gain access to Alpha Minchin. There is always the chance Minchin won’t speak to the press. However fake journalists make more sense than the feds being interested in a workplace accident, and claiming a similar profession to their victim is a no-no. 

Minchin is receptive to being interviewed, but only by Benny. He gets labeled a douche by Dean the first time he ignores the omega’s query on his health with a dismissive sneer. When he empathizes with Benny about clingy mates, Dean fancies finding another length of wood to hit the asshat on the other side of his head.

“Did you hear anything strange? Any change in temperature before the incident?” Dean tries to ask.

“Omega,” Minchin says wearily, “Leave this to the professionals.”

Benny is barely containing himself. Dean can sense his tension like crackles of electricity under his skin. 

“So there was nothing out of the ordinary?” Benny asks with extreme patience.

“No, Sir. Beam was rotten. It was bad luck is all.” Minchin dry laughs, “I have good employee cover, so guess can’t complain. How about you? You get medical, covering your omega too? What paper did you say you were from?” 

Dean nudges his mate. It is time to go. The article he based their hunt on left out the boring detail of the beam being rotten. They need to get back to Bonham and research the Hell out of the Lomb mates. In the hallway they almost bump against a nervy omega with circles under his eyes dark enough to match his thick black collar. Dean glances back over his shoulder to see him dart into Minchin’s room. 

“Pity the hit didn’t end the son of a bitch.” Dean mutters.

“Huh?” Benny queries as he holds the exit open for his mate.

“Minchin, the prime A-hole.” Dean shakes his shoulders and blows a raspberry. “Don’t think he was impressed that you let me out of the house, not to mind take me to work with you.”

“Fuck him.” Benny pronounces firmly.

With a chuckle, Dean takes the wheel for their short journey back to Bonham. 

“You want to find a motel?” Benny asks casually.

“Dunno, Alpha,” Dean sighs, “I got this itch under my skin. It didn’t seem so urgent back in Bobby’s, but…” He pauses to gather his thoughts, “once we got on the road, I didn’t want to stop overnight, and now we are here, I have this, I don’t know… this urge to get it all wrapped up pronto.”

Benny hums pensively. “Demolition is slated for three days time, so we have a deadline. But if your gut instinct is saying we need to get this done, then let’s get cracking.”

Dean squeezes a grateful hand onto his alpha’s denim clad thigh. He figures Benny must be wacked after their long road trip south, but they can sleep once Beta Lomb is salted and burned. 

They split up briefly so that Benny can use his alpha charisma on the local cemetery groundskeeper, while Dean employs his omega charms on the homemaker betas and omegas of suburban tree lined Seven Oaks Road. He is plied with iced tea, green tea and sacrilegious decaf coffee, and a blessed warm slice of apple pie at modest homes surrounding the boarded up structure at Seven Oaks and E15th Street. Eerie noises, ice on broken glass panes in summer, a handprint that appeared unexplained on the wooden siding, all go to reaffirm the presence of the undead. Elderly omega Dottie, who baked the pie, provides intimate details in the hushed tone of illicitly delivered gossip. Beta Lomb didn’t take to the bed and starve to death, she hung herself from an exposed beam. Dottie knows because her alpha-brother was amongst the neighbors who cut her decomposing body down. There is something ghoulish about Dottie’s delivery of the tale. Dean makes his excuses, exiting onto the senior’s lawn with a crawling sensation under his skin. 

He races across the street when he sees Benny parking Baby round the side of the haunted house. Dean easily jimmies the back door. The EMF reader needle is swinging. As it emits a rising peal, Dean has the final proof he needs to sanction a midnight grave dig.

“What is that?” Benny’s eyes are wide as saucers, focused in on the reader.

Dean gives a smug smirk. “That is my other Baby, my little electronic pup, made her myself.” He strokes the side of the old walkman casing. “Picks up electromagnetic frequencies. EMF is a trace of supernatural activity.”

“You made it?” Benny’s eyes twinkle.

“Sure did.” Dean nods proudly.

“Well I’ll be damned.” Benny huffs in admiration, before they both shiver at a spiking cold breeze. “Is it gonna snow in here?”

“Shit.” Dean hisses. The EMF is going crazy.

Every piece of wood in the house groans around them. 

“We gotta get out of here.” Dean begins edging backwards, stowing the reader in favor of raising his salt loaded shotgun.

“I’m right with you.” Benny confirms. 

A piercing screech that intensifies in pitch makes them drop arms to cover their ears. It is combined with a dreadful reek of rotted meat, before a stake-like shard of wood flies out of nowhere towards them. Dean releases his ears to shoot towards their invisible assailant. Benny grunts and doubles over. All Dean’s senses go on high alert. He can taste Benny’s blood in the back of his throat. His alpha has been struck. His mate is injured. That is not acceptable. 

In battle mode, he lets off round after round, ignoring the kickback as he pushes his body against his mate, guiding them blindly for the rear exit. 

“Take that you miserable bitch.” Any sympathy for the deranged widow vanishes. Dean is going to end her for good.

They are stumbling off the back porch. Dean is spinning on his heel looking for anything else he can shoot, any other danger to his mate.

“Dean… Sugar.” Benny grips his bicep. “I’m good. I’ll be OK.”

“You’re hurt.” It comes out higher pitched and more vulnerable than Dean intends. 

Benny pulls back his layers. There is a nasty injury to his left shoulder, but he wasn’t impaled. At first glance Dean assesses that stitches won’t be necessary. It could have been a lot worse, unimaginably worse. His voice wobbles as he suggests, “Why don’t we get you cleaned up?”

Benny agrees with a kiss to Dean’s brow and by tucking him under his good arm. They make a break for Baby before reports of gunfire can bring cops to their location. 

Dean tends to his alpha in the restroom of a Gas’n’Sip outside the city limits. 

“Your first war wound.” He sighs as he tenderly tapes over a clean square of gauze. 

Benny reaches to grasp Dean’s fingers. “Does this make me a bone vide hunter then, Darlin’?”

Melancholy lodges in Dean’s throat. He drops his eyes, “Do you want to be? I mean, is that what you want?”

A finger gently presses under Dean’s chin, lifting his gaze to meet Benny’s sincere one. “I want to be with you, wherever you are, and you, Mon Cher, are a hunter.”

“That’s not an answer.” Dean mumbles.

“How about this? What is bad about saving people? We did good with Lil’Phoenix on Gauntlet. Now we’re gonna keep danger from the doors of the good folks of Bonham. It’s good work, worthy work.” 

“Being raised in the life…” Dean looks skyward. “I don’t think I could ever leave it completely behind and goddamn if I could ignore a hunt in front of my eyes, but Alpha, you didn’t ask for this… You could be injured… or…”

“Shush,” Benny draws Dean near, “I won’t deny that my dreams include more gumbo than ghost hunts, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want this. Don’t fret, Darlin’, this is my choice. Alpha here, remember, don’t nobody tell me what to do.”

“’cept me.” Dean chirps cheekily.

“’cept you.” Benny readily acknowledges with a guffaw.

Despite having an injured alpha to soothe, eating overly greasy fries with grizzled burgers, and experiencing unpleasant internal jitters in anticipation of breaking into Bonham Municipal Cemetery after dark, things don’t go tits up until they are parked around the back of the boneyard. 

“Dean, I am not standing like a streetlamp holding the flashlight while you do all the digging.” 

Benny’s got his alpha voice on, feet planted shoulder width apart, with both his hands wrapped around a pickaxe. Dean is at the opposite side of Baby’s trunk brandishing his shovel. He doesn’t know why but he is at the end of his wick, patience running on empty. Why can’t Benny understand that Dean is trying to protect him from further injury?

“I don’t want you aggravating your wound.” 

“You take great care of me, Mon Cher, but I’ve swallowed those meds of dubious origin you gave me. I am, as you like to say, ‘peachy’.” 

“I’m pretty sure they were Motrin,” Dean grumbles, “You can be lookout. I’m digging.”

“Not happening.”

“Benny.” Dean fumes. Impatience clouds his senses. Why can’t his stubborn mate back down on this? 

“The longer we stand here arguing, the more likely we are to catch someone’s attention.” Benny snatches the duffel containing their supplies.

“You think I don’t know that?” Dean snaps. He vents his irritation by smashing his shovel into the side entry gate’s pathetic chain lock. The resulting clang is loud but satisfying. Luckily not a soul, corporeal or incorporeal, seems to have been in hearing distance.

“Feeling better?” Benny asks.

Dean stalks into the graveyard. His brain computes that the question was not asked snidely, rather with a hint of concern. It slows him down, makes him turn round. Benny is right behind him, scent leaking his alpha’s craving to shelter and protect. With a crooked smile, Dean grabs the lapels of Benny’s coat, dragging him into a rapid fire potent kiss. It is not an apology, but it clears the air between them. Dean says nothing when they have to pause to deal with blood seeping from his alpha’s left shoulder, instead he makes peace by commenting how much quicker grave desecration is with two on the job.

For safety, Dean recommends two for the price of one. There is always a slim chance that both corpses became restless spirits. They open up both sides of the double plot and give Alpha Lomb the same gasoline and salt treatment as his grief addled widow. Neither mate manifests in ghostly form. Benny begins to shovel dirt into the flames until Dean stops him. 

“They need to burn.” He explains as he gathers their stuff from the bare earth. In the distance there are voices. “And we need to run.”

By the time they are flinging shotguns, tools and duffel into the trunk, both hunters are grinning. Post-hunt endorphins pump their mood higher. No motel room means they can hit the road before their criminal mischief is discovered. They laugh at nothing in particular, as Dean streaks the Impala out of Bonham, adding to their Texan misdemeanors with reckless speed violations. He blasts Whole Lotta Love at maximum volume. It is his ironic tribute to the hunt with a side of thigh slapping glee. A glance to his right shows his alpha is on board with his sentiment, mouthing along to the awesome chorus. 

Quickened pulse, thumping heart, and thoughts flitting from hunt to alpha to the road ahead produce a cocktail of hormonal raciness in Dean. Well beyond Bonham, he wonders if this exaggerated euphoria is due to a special kind of relief that they got through the case in record time and relatively unscathed. The gauge keeps telling him he is bouncing over speed limits. He doesn’t want to get pulled over by highway patrol.

“You good to drive a spell?” Dean asks.

“No problem, Sugar. You beat?”

“Opposite, Alpha.” Dean huffs. “I think you should take the wheel. My after hunt high is freaking still up in the stratosphere, but soon as, it will probably flip into exhaustion.”

“We could pull over at the next motel?” Benny suggests, worry drawing his brows tight.

Dean shakes his head. It wobbles his brain. “Too close. We will rest up, especially with your shoulder. Not yet though. We’ve crossed state lines but best to put in more distance.”

Soon as he is behind the wheel, Benny teases that he gets to pick the music and cheekily changes The Zep for Boston. Maybe it is an effort to get the racing flames running through Dean’s veins to die down. Perhaps Benny has also been bopping inside too much. 

Somehow Dean drops into a restless slumber, slouched against the window. He has a vague impression of time passing and music changing. At some point Benny croons along to the radio, sending Dean into a semi-aware dream of them both hiking through Louisiana swamps, sweating in soaring mid-summer temperatures.

He wakes. Mouth parched. Temperature rising along his spine, one vertebra at a time, creeping through his nervous system. 

“Crap.” He groans. He moves his hips to straighten up. Inside his muscles seize and twitch. A gush of slick soaks his pants.

With a squeal of brakes and burning rubber Benny twists the Impala wheel to park her in the dirt. 

“Dean!” 

“Sorry, I…”

“You scent out of this world.” A rumbling growl vibrates, “Cher… it… Oh Lord… Dean.”

Dean opens his nasal passages inhaling deeply in an effort to sense what has changed. His pupils dilate. His exhalations are ragged and jumpy. Every molecule of air is imbued, drenched in musk. The sweet spicy heady scent is coming from Benny and with each breath it is getting more powerful. His alpha turns round, exposing his panting mouth, darkened rock pool pupils, flush rising on his skin. Dean’s eyes flick to the white knuckled grip his mate maintains on the wheel.

Benny whispers intensely. “Your heat.”

At the same moment Dean’s hand trembles to reach his alpha’s upper arm. He gasps in disbelief, “Are you having a sympathetic rut?”

Benny’s verbal answer is lost as they collide, clacking teeth, smashed lips, fingers tearing at their clothes.

Dean had thought alpha ruts were mythical. A story told of ideal mates, matched so well that the alpha’s biology will synch with their omega, ratcheting up their pheromones and hormones so they enter an intense passionate aroused fugue. Omegas with the ability to drive their alphas into such a special state are said to be soul mates. 

Benny huffs into the shell of Dean’s ear, “Y’coulda gave a dude the heads up.”

“Didn’t know, Alpha,” Dean gulps, burying his face into Benny’s uninjured shoulder, “It’s been so long since my last heat.”

“Oh, Mon Cher,” Benny manages to hold him closer.

The rational element of Dean’s melon screams loud enough for him realize that it isn’t safe for either of them to continue on their journey. His instinctual side is driven by a base need to mate now, long and hard, not caring if they spend days knotted in his car.

They break apart. Dean cannot bear it. He attempts to climb onto Benny, to smother him in kisses, to envelop him in limbs and tongue and grinding aching need. He keens as he is firmly yet carefully pushed back to his own side of the bench seat. Benny’s cock is swollen, hard, straining against his pants. It is all for Dean, who itches to spread his legs either side of his mate’s lap and sink down to be filled, held, taken and…

“Up ahead,” Benny cocks his head accompanied by a wince as if it pains him just as much to be separate entities. 

Dean blinks. His eyes do not want to focus on the far distance. They want to rivet to his alpha. He forces his body to comply with his alpha’s wish. There is a glow in the sky, a settlement or city within spitting distance.

“That’s Joplin.” Benny informs with a heaving sigh. “We need to get a room.”

It takes everything for Dean to agree. His hind brain is screaming for Benny’s knot. However he can see the disadvantages of being trapped for days on a public highway, maybe even taken into protective custody to finish their heat and rut in a local hospital. He can imagine his internal furnace driving him from the car to roll together, tangled in scrub grass, in the freezing night air.

“Pick a bigger motel,” he grinds out the words, “more likely to have heat-proof rooms.”

Benny’s nod is vigorous. He presses the pedal to the metal. They reach a stretch of diners and motels that border the Southside of Joplin. Within moments, that seem like sweltering hours to Dean, they are pulling into a four storey with attached Biggersons. 

His legs are jelly. He can’t speak, only pant. If he doesn’t get his alpha naked and mating soon, they are going to have plunk him into an ice bath to cool him off. 

Dean is bundled into his alpha’s strong arms. Arms that can carry him, hold him, pin him down. A high pitched whine sneaks out of his throat as Benny bursts through the swing doors of the Calypso Hotel. 

Dean couldn’t give a flying fuck if they are the only people in the lobby or if a coach tour is mingling around reception. He is secure, held tight, nuzzling blindly into his alpha’s neck. Benny’s beard tickles his nose. Dean doesn’t care. He is transfixed by luscious musky pheromones leaking through his alpha’s pores. He has no more than a peripheral awareness of the exchange taking place.

“Your heat room!” Benny demands.

There is an audible gulp. “Geez, yeah, I mean, we have a heat room.”

“Is it vacant?” 

The air is pushed out of Dean’s lungs in a whoosh as Benny adjusts him to a fireman’s carry. He claws at Alpha’s coat, wanting it to disappear so he can feel skin under his fingers.

At the end of a long hallway, a door is opened with two keys. Some words are spoken about dead bolts, a mini-fridge of bottled water, beta staff to deliver room service, and air conditioning set to cool. Benny’s hand pushes the uniformed presence out of the room with a fevered grateful thank you.

The carpet has a stain like the birthmark on Gorbachev’s head. Maybe some previous mates only made it through the door. Dean’s feet, however, never touch the ground. Benny throws him onto the bed, which is firm and sturdy enough to allow a Dean-bounce. His bottom layer tee is drenched in sweat, underwear ruined from leaking slick.

Suddenly Benny is covering him. Remaining clothes are dispensed in frenzy. Dean rises to his knees, presenting with acute craving. He has been good. He has waited. Now he needs his mate to fill him, to slake the heat, to join them together. He keens as he arches for his alpha, instinct driving him. Luckily the same need is consuming Benny, who massages Dean’s sides and butt cheeks, bends to taste the slick dripping onto clean sheets below. Dean doesn’t need to be rimmed. He is open, ready and quivering with desire. 

“So sweet. You taste so good, Mon Cher.”

“Hurry up.” Dean pleads.

“Shush, I’ll take good care of you.”

“Now.” Dean demands. He can’t get enough, can’t get it quick enough.

“Easy Tiger.” Benny’s laugh rumbles as he steadies his omega with a hand on his lower back. “My wonderful mate.”

Finally, blessedly, his alpha’s warm hard length enters him. Dean registers that his alpha too has endured torturous waiting. Benny is more than ready, the beginnings of his knot already pulsing. 

“Please.” Dean begs shamelessly, “Please.”

Benny moans, “Dean, oh so good, Dean.”

Pushing back, taking everything his alpha can offer, Dean’s hands curl into fists taking the weight of his body so he can rise up, slam back. It is wanton, movement with abandon, without censor or limits. Benny groans as he pistons in and out, shaking the bed, the room, their bodies. Their breathing becomes ragged. The knot grows, catching, offering completion in their connection. When Dean’s internal muscles clench in spasm, binding them together, Benny comes in waves, continuously flooding his mate, filling him.

“Awesome.” Dean murmurs as they perform a slow collapse onto soft damp sheets. Knotted, spooned and peppered with his alpha’s kisses he succumbs to a heat dipping nap.

In the borderland of half-wakefulness Dean’s lungs fill with the intoxicating aroma of Benny’s musk. During their rest they have parted, only to twist together in a mess of limbs. Dean’s head is sheltered by his alpha’s arm. He uses his contorted pose to his advantage, licking and laving across Benny’s chest. A contented snore-like growl brings a smile to Dean’s lips. Benny’s hand moves to card through his hair, massaging his scalp in loving patterns. Dean nuzzles in, crooning contentedly. His ardor increases, creeping up in preparation of round two. He concentrates on leaving a trail of kisses, marks, pinking spots, lines of dragged teeth along his alpha’s exposed skin. When he reaches the thatch of curls nestling his mate’s hardening cock, his own dick is leaking and aching. 

Big firm hands move him into place. Face to face, they can kiss deeply. Benny strokes Dean’s neglected cock. The omega bows back as he comes with a glorious shout.

His twitching hole leaks slick and come. He plants his shoulders into the mattress, bending his knees in invitation 

“Need you,” Dean blurts, hoping his alpha gets with the program and understands. 

Benny knocks their foreheads together. Dean feels that his alpha’s strong brow can support every cell in his body. This time their knotting is slower, achingly slow, driving Dean crazy. His nails rake a path down his alpha’s back, pulling and tugging Benny closer, encouraging. When fully seated, Benny eases down. Their eyes meet, both fevered but communicating desire and love. His alpha’s head drops lower. There is bright peaking pain, as teeth break skin to renew his claiming bite. That piquancy of pain with supersonic pleasure brings Dean to a new orgasm. 

While knotted, they remain wrapped together, stroking skin and offering brief incoherent words of praise. 

Later when Benny can disengage, there is bottled water, salty chips, and a stumbled visit to the bathroom, before they fall together in a tangled embrace. Daylight streaks through a gap in the blinds, as Benny takes his delicious time and eats Dean out. 

Time has no meaning. The bed linen is ruined. Their bodies slide in slick, perspiration and come. 

A passing dead of night fire truck siren wakes Dean. He is on his side, nose pressed into Benny’s spine, playing big spoon to his beloved alpha. His whole body is comprised of slack yet aching muscles. His thighs feel like they have run a marathon. 

“Alpha?” Dean queries into the darkness.

Benny’s turn is lazy. His rut has faded away with Dean’s departed heat. 

“Yeah, Sugar?” 

“You good?” 

He reaches up to switch on low glowing artificial light. It exposes the purples and reds of his alpha’s disregarded hunting wound. Benny follows Dean’s gaze before sweeping over their bodies with a wry chuckle. They are both decorated in hickeys, bites and light grazing scratches.

Dean’s stomach rumbles at volume.

“How long since we’ve eaten?”

Benny pulls back, flailing his hand onto the floor. He finds his phone. “’s Thursday.”

“Hmmm,” Dean slinks back to the bolstered headboard. “Only two days.”

Benny raises his brows. The big alpha crawls crablike, which is just too amusing, making Dean titter a laugh as his mate snuggles into his belly, beard rubbing across sensitized skin. “Humm, yummy.”

Dean smacks playfully across the back of his skull, “Less of that. Heat’s over. Elvis has left the building. Now order me pie and fries and deep fried crispy noodles and a steak.” He lifts the arm Benny is not pinning down, wrinkling his nose at his stinky armpit. “First, we are going to hit the shower, Alpha.”

It’s like Benny hasn’t heard him. The alpha kisses a wide circle round Dean’s navel.

“So good, Mon Cher.”

Dean caresses the back of his alpha’s neck. He hums pleasantly, taking in the faint lingering spicy tendrils of musk with keynotes of Benny’s earthy leather sweetness. 

Dean’s eyes widen at the glassy brimming stare that meets him when Benny tilts his head to gaze upward. 

“Alpha?”

Benny leaves a hand on Dean’s belly as he shuffles to sit pressed against him.

“Can you not sense it, Darlin’? The change?” With hesitancy he adds, “The quickening?”

A possessive hand strokes circles on his belly, wide firm alpha hand sheltering his pup. 

The rush of blood through Dean’s ears is mild panic. Could Benny be freaking right? Can he scent this? Is this why his heat has ended? 

He closes his eyes, after all the hormones and the marvelous awesome sex, it takes a few moments to find inner peace, a state of equilibrium. Still in self-imposed darkness, Dean wraps a hand around Benny’s wrist. The pulse under his finger-pads helps. In stillness he allows his instinctive side to be heard. He wants to curl. His knees rise. His chest flutters. It is unreal, unbelievable. His innate omega voice calls him to protect and guard the tiny spark of life inside.

“A pup?” It is hushed, leaving Dean open-mouthed with pure wonder.

“Our pup,” Benny kisses his temple, “Our own little pup.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSPN++++++++++++++++++++++++++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Holds hands up* 
> 
> I didn’t tag this story as mpreg, but I swear on pie that the characters made this happen. Originally I plotted for pups in the distant future. If anyone has an aversion to mpreg, I can only apologize and say that it won’t be graphic but I understand it is not everyone’s cup of tea. 
> 
> Also, Blackrectangle there really is a Seven Oaks Road in Bonham, when I saw it on Google maps I couldn’t resist. ;-)


	14. Fourteen

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSPN+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Pulling into Bobby’s after darkness has fallen, Dean lets out a long blowing exhalation, suddenly unsure that he ready to share their precious news. If Benny needs to ask him how he is doing, then Dean might respond ‘shaky’. Words are unnecessary. His alpha places a thigh spanning hand and squeezes solidly. Bobby’s silhouette is revealed by light pooling through the open garage door. The beta wipes his hands on his overalls before raising an arm to salute the returning hunters.

When they had recovered their senses in Joplin, Dean recharged his cell phone to discover there had been a litany of text messages from Bobby asking for a progress update, where in tarnation they were, and what was with the radio silence. Finally a cussing voicemail relayed that he was headed south. Luckily that message was fresh and Dean had been able to call with apologies to stall Bobby’s race to Texas. He had listened to a thankful rant that they weren’t ghost chow, before attempting to explain about his heat until Bobby had rapidly forgiven him with added pleading for no intimate details.

Dean stretches his limbs and cracks his spine, patting Baby’s flank for getting them safely home. The metal door of the garage screeches as Bobby closes up shop. 

“Ya made it.” Bobby calls, the few words translate into praise for a job cleanly done. 

“Sure did.” Benny shouts back, rolling his healing shoulder in an unconscious motion.

“Come on inside,” Bobby jerks his head, “I got somethin’ lined up for you.”

A stone falls into the pit of Dean’s stomach. After weeks of snow bound enforced downtime he is speechless at the idea of hunts coming thick and fast with springtime. He glances at his boots. Benny understands. He tucks his mate under his arm and rubs Dean’s bicep. A smile is given when Dean’s eyes dart to his alpha’s face. Putting one foot in front of the other, they make progress. Dean’s free hand strays unconsciously to place his palm flat over his lower belly. They’ve been staying rent free under Bobby’s roof, cooking and eating his food, and drawing on his vast brain of lore. Dean counts Bobby as family. His beta mentor would be outraged at the notion of accepting compensation for helping the newly mated couple. It is Dean’s own sense of fairness that has rationalized how they balance Bobby’s kindness by helping out under the hood of a car or by taking on hunts as needed. But Dean can’t and won’t hunt while he is pregnant. His pup may only be a cluster of cells but his mind shies away from imagining dire consequences of getting sucker punched by some werewolf or demon. It is against ever fiber of his essential being to place his pup in danger. He grinds his teeth at how he is going to have to let Bobby down. It sucks ass that he is going to inflict disappointment and hassle.

Glancing up he sees Bobby’s perplexed stare at how Benny is sheltering Dean, how the young hunter is allowing it, and the tension in Dean’s posture.

“Some other FUBAR happen that ya didn’t share with the class?” Bobby asks as he precedes them indoors.

Dean sticks limpet-like to Benny who indulges him by not pulling away. 

“You wanna take off your coats? Water? Silver?” Bobby’s tone belies concern.

Staying close enough for body heat sharing, the mates shuck their outerwear. Dean rolls up his plaid sleeve for Bobby’s sharp silver blade. Benny looks like he is going to object to the tiny amount of bloodletting. Dean sets his lips in a firm line. He shakes his head. 

Slightly salted holy water swigged by all three, Bobby plants his hip flask onto the kitchen table, leaning against the edge. “You two are as twitchy as a pair of startled deer.” Bobby leans forward sniffing at the air surrounding Dean, “And even to my weak beta nose, you Son scent like you’ve been dunked in a vat of Baskin Robbins.”

“Told ya, Sugar, creamy sweet vanilla salt taffy.” Benny’s eyes almost roll back in bliss.

“And what the hell? Gooey smores?” Bobby exclaims.

“That’s it, Bobby,” Benny clicks his fingers. “I couldn’t pin it in words. Dean’s woody smokiness is now campfire smores.”

Dean’s shoulders hitch in amusement. “I’m gonna have people trying to lick me this summer.”

Benny barks a laugh, “No way, Darlin’. I’m the only licker here.”

Bobby makes a slow indulgent headshake, “This is all dandy, but why has Dean taken up dousing his body with omega confectionary perfume?”

“Hey, less of the perfume! I’m not drenched in any dumb fake scent.” Dean objects. He smirks at Bobby, “Surprised you’re so slow on the uptake.”

“Well, Young Pup,” Bobby snorts, “Only things I know can transform a body like that are certain nasty curses and …” The beta’s eyes widen. His jaw drops. “You’re not!”

“We are.” Benny confirms.

Although Bobby is breaking his cheek muscles with joy, as the beta surges forward, Dean flinches. Bobby quells all the omega’s nerves by sweeping him into a back clapping bear hug.

“Dean,” Bobby’s voice is choked, “I’m so Godamned happy for ya.”

“Thanks, Bobby,” Dean manages to mutter.

Bobby draws back rapidly, holding on to upper arms and searching his face. He pulls Dean slightly to the left out of Benny’s direct gaze. “That is right, ain’t it? We are happy about this?”

“Yeah,” Dean wheezes. He taps his forehead, “Freaking awesome but not sunk all the way in yet.”

“I can imagine,” Bobby huffs. “Hell, just two minutes ago you and Sammy were pups running round here getting under my feet.”

A watery smile graces that comment. Dean knows gruff affectionate memory sharing is Bobby’s way of imparting approval and familial love. It is the mention of Sammy that cuts deep. Sam never responded to the news of his mating to Benny, and now Dean cannot imagine how to begin a ‘you’re going to be an uncle’ conversation. 

“You OK?” Benny picks up on the stew inside his mate.

“Just y’know…” Dean’s voice trails away. He does not want to open that can of worms. An expert at flipping topics away from things he wants to repress, Dean braves having to refuse Bobby’s hunt. “Hey, Bobby, what news did you wanna share with us?”

“Nothing to compare with your welcome shocker.” Bobby is still shaking his head a measure, “Dean and a pup. I can’t believe it, but I can see you with your own babe. The way you were only a pup yourself and you raised…”

Another Sam reminisce might just undo him. 

“Why don’t we get our stuff from the trunk and you can fill us in?”

“Sure thing.” Bobby acquiesces. “I’ll heat up some thick warming soup for ya both. Bet you’ve only been eating out of crappy diners since you left and you’ve got a passenger onboard now, Son.”

“I’ll get ‘em.” Benny makes to head out. “Let me do the heavy lifting, Darlin’.”

His wafting newly-with-pup pheromones are nature’s way of driving his mate, and any other decent folks, to protect and cherish. His scent will gradually fade in intensity over the next couple of weeks, yet remain campfire cum Dairy Queen Sundae sweetness until their pup is born. No way is Benny getting away with putting Dean in a glass box for his pregnancy. Being overruled at the suggestion of trying a hustle at a roadhouse on the way north was reasonable, but being cosseted and fussed over for nine months needs to be nipped in the bud. 

“Seriously?” Dean adopts stink-eyes. “It’s a couple duffels, Alpha.”

Benny pauses, conflicted enough that one foot points towards outside and the other hovers towards his mate. 

Dean huffs, “I promise faithfully that if we need to look at the Impala’s undercarriage without a jack you can try out being The Hulk all on your lonesome.”

Benny’s laugh and Bobby’s side whisper of “Idjits” make Dean’s lips curve upwards.

His mate hold out a hand for Dean to take, “Remind me if I’m verging on crazy expectant alpha-dad.”

“Hell, Alpha, I’ll have to root out that old Dictaphone I saw in Bobby’s desk and make a recording.”

“Cheeky,” Benny retorts, using his free hand to lightly swat Dean’s butt.

“That’s me,” Dean chortles, swinging their arms and pulling his alpha out the door.

As they carry their bags in, Dean’s stomach betrays his hunger with a fresh rumble. His nose fills with the aroma of warming chunky vegetable broth. “Don’t tell me Bobby’s gonna be a vegetable Nazi.” 

“It’ll all be fine, Sugar,” Benny reassures with a suspicious saccharine beam, “I got a bible of greens disguising recipes for ya.”

“Save me!” Dean shouts playfully. “They better not include adulterating blessed pie with freaking peas and okra and slimy lettuce.”

Benny can’t contain his mirth, “Thought you liked a pumpkin pie, and you ate that carrot cake with creamy frosting.”

“Don’t count, Alpha. They tasted awesome.”

“Case proven.” Benny fist pumps for the win.

“Frickin’ underhand tactics.” Dean grumbles sorely, but gets over it when Benny pulls him onto Bobby’s old sofa to sit comfortably tight together.

“Suppose you doggone idjits are gonna be surgically attached now?” Bobby raises his eyes to Heaven. He hands Benny a beer and Dean a glass of cloudy apple juice. 

“Something like that,” Benny says proudly. 

Bobby raises his bottle, “Congratulations.”

They clink glass in toast. 

Dean’s hand finds a home at his belt buckle. “Thanks Bobby. I’m real sorry we’re not gonna be taking that hunt you’ve lined up.”

“Huh?” Bobby squints. “You got me wrong, Dean. There isn’t a hunt, though there could be ones you’d like to pass on if things work out, but that’s not what I’ve lined up.”

Benny looks at Dean for inspiration but the omega is just as stumped as his mate.

Over soup and thick sliced bread, Bobby lays out the scheme he has been concocting in their absence.

Gesturing with his spoon, the beta begins. “New mates and all, they need their own space, specially an alpha.”

“Don’t want you thinking we’ve been unhappy here.” Benny butts in. “You’ve given Dean and I our first home as mates.”

Dean glows with satisfaction that his mate has spoken both their feelings.

“Maybe in light of a new pup coming into the world, you may have a different reaction, but hear out my proposal and then you boys can stew it over in your grapefruits.” Bobby glances at them both in turn. On receiving nods he continues. “I’m not kicking you out. You hear that Dean? No-one is kicking anyone out.”

“I hear ya.” Dean intones. His curiosity is piqued. Soup is almost forgotten until Benny head jerks towards the omega’s quarter full bowl. 

“I know of a cabin available to hunters.”

“But with Dean…” Benny begins to say they are not hunting. Bobby’s raised palm stalls his flow.

“Y’don’t havta be active on the job for this place, but it is there for you, and if you go I expect regular contact and mutual dropping in on our doorsteps.” 

“Where is it?” Dean asks with his mouth full. Luckily Bobby is fluent in Dean-with-food.

“Over in Idaho. Few miles south of Montpelier. You heard of Bear Lake, North end of the Wasatch range?”

It rings a dull bell in Dean’s noggin. He mentally reckons it to be a full long day at the wheel, or maybe an overnight distance with a pup on board. “Think we cut through there a couple years ago on the way to a haunting in Rock Springs.” He rubs his temple for the memory, “Seemed familiar then. I’ve a feeling Dad might have worked a case in the Caribou forest, long time ago, like ’87-ish. But I’m certain we had a crappy motel not a cabin.”

“Well, Harry woulda been alive and kicking then, and John don’t work so well with other hunters, especially alphas. You never heard of Harry Mason?”

Dean gives a firm headshake. That name draws a blank.

Bobby leans back in his chair. “Harry Mason, old curmudgeon of an alpha, hunter since God was a child. Dodger ticker did him in. His only pup, Alice, resides with her mate in some la-di-la retirement community in the Sunshine State. She’s never been a hunter. Harry forbade it when she was young and wild, but she knows what is out there. She turned up on my porch one sunny day back in 1999, spare keys to the cabin swinging between her fingers. Once Harry got too arthritic to participate in the action, word spread that he’d offer shelter and aid to any hunter who’d make their way to his home. Alice wanted that to continue. She picked a few of those in her late father’s confidence to let it be known that the cabin remained available as sanctuary.”

“Like a provisioned wilderness cabin for hikers in trouble?” Benny hums.

“Same theme, different story.” Bobby confirms. “When Harry was alive, he was the contact, the Idaho touchstone for hunters in the know.”

Dean raises a doubting brow, “You telling us that there’s a hunters’ network that’ve parceled up The States?”

“No. Idjit. Though,” Bobby concedes, “there are some territorial alpha knotheads out there who don’t want other hunters on their patch.”

Dean remembers John exchanging fisticuffs when they encountered other hunting alphas. It was rare that his Dad would end up working in partnership with the other hunter. Perhaps rather than John’s unique personality causing problems, it had been a turf war issue.

Bobby elaborates, “I mean if I can’t get to Iowa or Wisconsin, I can call up Jim in Blue Earth and he’ll take the case or give it to some dude he trusts. Same deal with Jefferson down in Tucson if he is at his home base and not hunting on the opposite side of the country. There’s a grumpy so-and-so got a cabin in Whitefish, Montana too, but you could say since Mason kicked the bucket there’s a void.”

“And this senior beta lady’s doing the lambada at the notion of us living in her old Dad’s place?” Dean wishes he did not have the propensity to look a gift horse in the mouth, but in his experience there is always a catch.

“I mighta been my suave persuasive self and suggested the benefits of a more permanent presence who could manage the upkeep and any repairs to her old home.” Bobby smirks.

“Ah-ha, did you?” Dean nods appreciatively.

“So this is all kosher?” Benny plunks an elbow on the table between their empty dishes. “What’s the deal?”

“Mason would give a bed to a hunter in need, let them hide out with him, and in his younger days join a hunt that needed an extra hand. My old partner used his knowledge and experience back in the day.” Bobby glues his gaze on Benny, “Your side of the deal is continuing the tradition. That means you got an omega about to pup, or said pup wailing its newborn heart out, and a wounded hunter knocks on your door. You dampen down your Alpha, and let them into your home. You allow your vulnerable omega to use his emergency first aid knowledge, and you let a strange alpha who lives a life of violence to sleep under same roof as your family, and Benny Lafitte, if you think you cannot do that, then tell me to shut my mouth right now.”

Benny goes rigid in his seat. His scent spikes burned spice. Dean doesn’t say a word as he watches the wheels turn in his alpha’s brain, but he does slide his hand up and down the plane of Benny’s shoulder blade. Bobby drains his beer while they wait, only moments but those seconds tick slowly. 

Benny’s hand curves around Dean’s waist, pulling him closer, so the omega needs to scoot his chair nearer. “I mated Dean with my eyes open. My beloved omega is a hunter. More than that he is an amazing person who would never refuse help to someone in need, no matter where we are. The situation you describe is more probable if we…” Benny pauses. “It’s not a deal breaker. But, Bobby, if my mate, or our pup, are ever under threat then all bets are off.”

“I would expect nothing less.” Bobby huffs in satisfaction. He cocks his head to Dean. “Decent alpha you got there, Pup.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees with a softly expelled breath, wowed at hearing his alpha’s high opinion of him.

Bobby nods. He pulls a ring with three keys from his pocket. “Day Alice stopped by, she also gave me the key to her Daddy’s lock up in Montpelier.”

Dean whistles thinking of what the old alpha could have squirreled away.

“Calm down Dean. It’s not going to be a dragon hoard of gold, but Mason had a decent library. I’ll give you the key and come out there to help catalog it when you are settled. Alice is good people. I doubt she’ll give you any grief from all the way down in Florida, and the structure was sound the last time I used it overnight ‘bout 18 months ago.”

“When do you want us to go?” Dean asks.

Bobby narrows his eyes at Dean’s tensed up posture. “Did you hear the part about not kicking your asses out? Don’t you let your gnarly brain fix on that motivation. If you hate the sound of it, or don’t like the fricking place if you give it a try, you’ll be more than welcome to stay on here.”

“We’d like to think on it.” Benny hums.

“What Alpha said.” Dean concurs. “But you’ve opened a whole IMAX screen of possibility we never considered.”

“Good. Job done.” Bobby says just as one of his FBI phones starts up.

Dean clears away their leavings. Benny heads for their room once he obtains a kiss and a promise for Dean to follow him up.

Up to his elbows in suds, washing their soup bowls, Bobby surprises Dean.

“You going to tell Sam?”

The bowl slips from his grip into the basin. Dean keeps his back turned. “Don’t think he wants to know.”

“You kidding me? That pup worships the ground you walk on.”

With a hushed tone and a tight throat Dean confesses, “Not anymore, Bobby.”

“Don’t be so sure, Son.”

“He left. Okay?” Dean’s shoulders shake, not with grief but with hurt anger.

“He’s in Stanford, not on the fricking moon.” Bobby huffs. “I’m damned certain he’d want to know.”

“I’m not.” Dean mutters, beseeching any higher power tuned into his brainwaves for Bobby to drop it.

“You want I could…”

“I’ll consider it.” Dean tells the faucet, hoping that ends the discussion. “Good talk, Bobby.” 

The final dishes get the most cursory of cleaning. Dean needs Benny. He knows Bobby didn’t mean to cause him turmoil, but he can’t stay in the kitchen. He bolts to their room, finding Benny with only a towel wrapped round his waist.

“Need you, Alpha.” Dean chokes. 

Benny opens his arms.

It is like manna from Heaven to be enclosed in his alpha’s embrace. To allow his mate to cradle his head, plant kisses to his closed eyelids, his cheekbones, his nose.

“One day I’m agonna kiss each one of your freckles in one session.”

The lovingly said whisper breaks through. Dean laughs lightly, cupping his alpha’s cheek and reaching to taste his lips. The towel soon disappears along with Dean’s clothes. That night they press skin on skin, slowly finding a rhythm of easy lovemaking, mutual contentment and shared heat under layers of blankets.

Dawn finds Dean draped over his mate. He curls to a comfortable position. Benny hums a morning greeting. Dean shuffles to join foreheads, their proto-pup sheltered between their spines. Slow lazy waking leads to being propped together on pillows.

“What’d’ya think?” Dean asks without having to spell it out.

Benny plants weight on his elbow. “I like the idea of our own home. Might not be forever permanent but it’d be somewhere to start out as mates and parents.” His fingers trace Dean’s knuckles. “What about you? Mon Cher, what do you think?”

“I’ll miss Bobby, but I like the idea of our own nest.” Dean admits.

“Our nest?”

“Sue me. I’m with pup. Nesting’s important.” Dean fake-bristles.

“So I’ve been told, Sugar.” Benny can barely keep a straight face. “Do you want to head on a road trip to check the place out?”

“I don’t know,” Dean muses. “Bobby’s given it his seal of approval. We could go straight to giving it a trial run. Camp out there for a few weeks, test the waters? Lots of times growing up, Dad would take a short term rental, find a squat for us, or we’d end up in a cabin somewhere in the backwoods.” He huffs, “Probably available to other hunters like Harry Mason’s or the Reeves family’s one on Gauntlet. I know how to make the best of any shelter, make it livable for my alphas.”

“Shush, Mon Cher, I hope we are aiming a lot higher than livable.” 

Dean drags his thoughts out of memory lane, “’Course Alpha. I didn’t mean to presume…”

Benny clicks his tongue, “I wish I’d clocked your Daddy a harder hit. You are with me now, Sugar. You presume, fantasize, dream any damned thing you want, and together we’ll do our best to make it happen.”

Dean’s jaw drops.

“Darlin’, we’ll do it your way, pack up our stuff and give it a chance.”

Dean hadn’t known he wanted their own home so badly, or that he had been metaphorically holding his breath for his alpha’s approval, until he flings his arms around Benny’s neck and presses thank you caresses.

Moving to Idaho isn’t quite as simple as throwing all their belongings into Baby and hitting the road. They set the last week of the month as their moving date. 

Time flies by. There is a trip to the omega clinic at Sioux Falls General but it is too early for anything more than medical confirmation of Dean’s pregnancy and instructions to dose up on suitable omega vitamin complexes. Dean suffers an incident of Foot-In-Mouth when he tells his concerned young beta intern that his alpha kept him on beta maskers and sups for almost ten years. He has to quickly backtrack and clarify that the alpha in question was his father, before the doctor calls in social workers and has horrified Benny forcibly removed from the premises. When everyone calms the freak down, which involves a few minutes of private time in their cubicle with Benny scenting his neck, collar and claiming bite, the doctor runs a few supplementary blood tests on the side of caution but assures Dean that the fact that he is with pup means it is unlikely that following John’s orders caused any lasting damage. It still takes repeated reassurance from Benny and a stop for hot cherry pie for the little voice in Dean’s head to cease its mantra of guilt that he could have harmed his pup. It is a relief when the bloodwork comes back confirming that Dean is peachy, save for a moderate calcium deficiency - a typical side effect of prolonged sups usage. He is given a diet sheet and another tub of vitamin/mineral complex. As he pops the meds with his evening meal, and consumes the disgraceful amount of vegetables his alpha is insisting on feeding him, Dean reckons it is not so bad. Taking these meds is not a chore but an honor that makes him rub discreet circles on his flat belly and mentally whisper to his pup that Papa is taking care of him or her.

They spend time going through Bobby’s upstairs rooms for household items the beta doesn’t need or plain forgot about. With a melancholy air Bobby gifts Karen’s carefully boxed baking accoutrements and her folded stored favorite bed linens. If Bobby takes off for a long drive on the clear breezy day that Dean airs out the linens, then wisely nobody says a word. 

Alice emails a few scanned old photos of the cabin. The solid log build meets Dean’s approval. A single window in the eaves above the front porch touches his inner nesting instinct, imagining creating a home for his pup in the room behind that glass. The internal pictures are of a decent sized family room and an orange and brown patterned sixties style kitchen. Understandably the beta wishes to speak to them before everything is a done deal. As Bobby puts his phone on speaker and dials her home number, Dean is so nervous his palms are damp and he stutters over his greeting. Alice is wise to the supernatural. She expresses her pleasure that Bobby found a young couple to occupy the legacy her father left to the hunting community. She is a tad old fashioned and addresses most of her conversation to Benny or Bobby, but Dean gives her a pass. The retired beta is providing them with a place to live in exchange for honoring her alpha father’s memory and doing any necessary repairs to her property. She is happy for them to decorate and adjust the cabin to their needs. Bobby claps Dean on the shoulder after the call. With a gruff chuckle he warns them not to become enthusiastic gardeners. Digging too deep in the cabin’s yard might uncover unpleasant evidence hidden by previous hunters. That night in his sleep Benny mutters about raised beds and planting under cloches. It makes the omega snuggle closer and cook up dastardly plans to foil evil vegetable harvesting with pie-suitable berry bushes.

The plan is for Bobby to follow the Impala in his pick-up. All the duffels, linens and Benny’s kitchenware will pack into the trunk and backseat of the Chevy. Bobby is transporting anything heavier, like tools, sacks of rock salt, and a freaking nest of tables that had been in the basement. On their last Saturday in Sioux Falls, Dean gets suspicious that Bobby has got something up his sleeve. The hunter is particularly ornery and spends most of the morning checking his phones or searching for a tome on demon lore he had promised to show another hunter.

“It hasn’t rung since the last time you checked.” Dean huffs amusedly from his spot at the table cleaning and oiling his guns. Just because hunting is off the menu doesn’t mean he is going to stop taking care of his shit. No one knows better than a Winchester how heinous things can invade a home and destroy a family. 

“I dunno what you’re talking about.” Bobby grumbles.

“Alpha! Alpha!” Dean calls.

“What Darlin’?” Benny’s voice drifts in from the hallway where he is taping up their few boxes of possessions.

“Bobby’s checked if his lady-friend’s texted him again.” Dean jests before breaking into a musical trill of laughter.

“You listen here, Pup,” Bobby starts, rising to his feet.

There is the sound of a powerful engine with an attached bouncing trailer entering Singer Salvage.

“Ha!” Bobby clicks his tongue. “Reinforcements.”

“Huh?” Dean draws his brows tight. He follows Bobby to the door, beckoning his alpha to accompany them.

A whirl of shorn hair and plaid with an added blur of black God-uniform barrel into Dean. His brain catches up to identify a Caleb-hug and a Pastor Jim Murphy back-clapping blessing. 

Benny leans against Dean’s back. A hand weaves around his waist. The alpha preacher hugged Benny’s omega mate without an acknowledgement or a glance seeking permission. Dean is real proud of his alpha’s self-control. It must have taken a lot to restrain his growling instincts when an unbonded alpha touched his pregnant mate, even if Jim is virtually family and a man of the cloth.

“Hello freaking amateurs and idjits,” Bobby throws his eyes up. “Y’test ‘em first.”

“Who are you calling amateur, Beta Singer?” Pastor Jim shakes his head, “Look how students turn on their teachers.”

“Teachers smeachers,” Bobby snorts. “Thought you were coming for the Slavic Anti-Gospel.”

“Sure we were, Bobby,” Caleb chuckles, “Nothin’ to do with the best omega hunter on the planet getting claimed and taking over old Mason’s cabin.”

Dean clears his throat. “Before Bobby dumps a bucket of iced holy water over your heads, Pastor Jim, Caleb, this here is my alpha, Benny Lafitte.”

“Pleased to meetcha,” Caleb shakes Benny’s offered hand. “You snagged one of the good ones.”

“I know it.” Benny grins. “And if I forget he’ll remind me he is adorable.”

“Hey! I do not.” Dean swats his alpha’s bicep in protest at the tease.

“I pray your union will be much blessed.” Jim covers Benny’s hand with both of his to offer an earnest handshake. The reverend alpha smiles kindly towards Dean. “May I say that you have a very fine collar, Dean? I find that care in choosing the right symbols of a new mating reflects well on those joining their lives together.”

Dean preens under the praise and blessing. He remembers how kind and caring Alpha Jim had always been on the occasions he and Sam had been dumped at the parochial house. The Pastor was a confirmed bachelor for The Lord not used to young pups tearing around his chapel. Then there was the occasion when teenage Dean, during his first year on sups, had stolen a bottle of communion wine. The look of disappointment on Jim’s face had been enough to break the rebellious omega’s heart and sober him up quick smart. John had never heard a whisper of the incident.

“Alpha and I picked my collar together. This was my favorite.” Dean ducks his eyes, warmed by the memory of that day back in Maine. 

“It’s handsome.” Caleb concurs. “I got a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue for the new mates. How about we crack it open to celebrate?”

Dean swallows hard. He blindly finds his alpha’s fingers to pull on. “Y’see, thing is, Alpha and me, we’ve kinda been blessed already. I’m with pup.”

“Dean!” Caleb beams at them.

“Magnificent!” Pastor Jim proclaims.

There is another round of hugging before Bobby finally gets to do his hunter checks. They are dragged back out into the chill to view the contents of Caleb’s tarp covered trailer. 

Before the reveal, Caleb takes point like a stage magician’s assistant ready to whip away the tarp. “Kipped for a few hours at Bear Lake last Fall. Dudes, the sofa was rank.”

Dean’s eyes go out on stalks.

“Like some fucking douche had drunk his way to spewing and pissin’ all over it.”

“So graphic.” Jim deadpans. Everyone grins knowing the reverend is no shrinking violet.

“Me and Travis, we dragged it out to the curb. Least we could do for the next crew using the cabin to shelter.” Caleb smirks, “To cut a long story short, Jim’s a miracle worker.”

“It’s called parish aid.” Jim corrects. “We take donations, some for rummage sales, some to pass on to young families in need, and it sounded to me like my favorite omega hunter needed some seating for his new nest.”

Dean blinks at his friends, “I can’t accept your parish…”

“You can.” Jim insists with a firm alpha tone.

“This is mighty fine of you.” Benny responds.

“That’s a mighty fine mate you have.” Jim imbues his simple words with a modicum of protective threat.

“Yes Sir.” Benny tilts his head ever so slightly, submitting on this single issue to the older alpha. 

Flattered and unsure what to do about it, Dean interrupts, “Alpha Face Off all done? Good. Caleb, show us the goods!”

The beta flings the tarp with the drama of a matador. Underneath is a matching three piece set. Two deep armchairs and a wooden framed long sofa upholstered in charcoal gray cord. The armrests are a bit frayed but with some clever patchwork, Dean figures they will get years out of the behemoth seating. 

Bobby, Caleb and Jim enjoy reliving their top secret planning when they are back indoors consuming hot coffees and freshly baked ginger cookies, which Benny manages to conjure out of virtually nowhere. Jim has a deacon assisting him but he needs to be back in Blue Earth for his parish’s later morning ceremonies on Sunday. They are leaving Caleb’s trailer to hitch onto the back of Bobby’s truck. Bobby will rendezvous with the younger beta later to return it. 

Caleb wants to hear every detail of the case on Gauntlet. He has never met Sheriff Bryson or his son, as it has been a few years since he set foot on the isle, but he knows some of the other residents. Somehow the tale of the Angiak gets turned round to Benny giving news on Mac’s family, Antoinette, Jonah, Geoff, Simone and others. 

Over shared giant pizzas, through sneaky subtle directing of their conversation, Caleb and Jim get Benny and Dean to relate the tale of their meeting (edited for decency), the hunt and their mating. Caleb fumes about the motherfucking shitheads at The Lookout. Pastor Jim promises to include Phoenix and Rowan in his prayers. 

Bobby and Jim find the book that the alpha wanted, which leads to a discussion on possession and exorcisms. Benny is riveted by Jim’s demon knowledge. Dean finds their talk pretty educational too. He makes a mental note to plant a circle of salt around the cabin’s perimeter. Caleb enthuses about a delivery of high grade steel blades he is due. Dean and he engage in a debate about machetes versus Bowie knives. When Benny chips in how naturally Dean carries his Bowie, the omega feels like he has won no matter what Caleb says. 

It is late when they hit the hay, but Dean and Benny make sure to rise early on Sunday. They work together to produce a breakfast spread including pancakes, crispy bacon and wheat toast. It is much appreciated and consumed down the last sliver of tasty pork rind, which Dean pops into his mouth before his alpha’s health kick rears its head. 

They wave off their friends with accepted invitations to come to Idaho once the Lafittes are settled. Jim tells them to expect more visits once their pup enters the world, before taking the shotgun seat in Caleb’s SUV. A satisfied glow keeps Dean’s spirits up as he watches their departure. Bobby heads into Sioux Falls for supplies. Dean repeats his request for driving snacks and pie. He can almost hear Bobby’s silent retort about bottomless stomachs. 

When the kitchen is gleaming to chef standards, the mates take a long refreshing shower together, during which Dean decides that having his hair carefully washed by his alpha ranks high on his awesomeness scale.

Benny is trimming his beard. Freshly clad in his favorite Zep tee under a heavy flannel shirt, Dean is making minor adjustments to how his collar sits, when a loud demanding knock sounds. With a huff of mild annoyance at the interruption, he slips his pearl handled colt into his waistband. It is unlikely to be a weekend salvage yard emergency. The urgent battering of the door suggests it is either a hunting acquaintance of Bobby’s, or Caleb and Jim returning for something they forgot, making them late for the pastor’s duties.

Dean flies down the stairs, two steps at a time, wooly socks slip sliding so he has to skim the railing with his hand. He reaches back to check his piece, shouting out “Hold your freaking horses.”

One glance confirms the salt line is pristine. He flings the door open and freezes. 

Fist up to knock again, stands Dean’s freakishly tall, floppy haired, and hoodie wearing alpha brother.

 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


	15. Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there were a lot of expectations about this one. I've worked on it and tweaked it until I am happy with it. I hope you all enjoy reading about Sam and Dean's reunion.

++++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSPN++++++++++++++++++++++

Dean pinches the soft skin inside his wrist. Is this real? Is he actually embraced in a warm Sammy hug?

Sam’s arms swaddle him. They span his back, imbuing warmth through cotton layers. Sam is like a furnace, running hot, his heady familiar scent of little brother and protect filling Dean’s senses. The omega breathes in long lost fraternal alpha goodness; that smell that emerges from the spine of a new book, and iron rich burnt copper pennies with a hint of peppermint. Around the time Sam had shot up like a beanpole and popped his knot, his wonderful layer of milky pup scent had vanished, but Dean imagines he can pick it up now, under layers of mature alpha, present for the omega who raised him. He presses his nose into the smooth skin of Sam’s neck, wowed that this is as far as his face reaches on his not so little brother. The errant voice at the back of his brain queries how disconnected this Sam is from the one who dropped him like a stone.

“Dean.” Sam gushes simply.

“Sammy,” Dean gasps. For the first time his collar feels restrictive. He wishes he’d left it on the bedside shelf for Benny to adorn him later. Then he could have eased Sam into the reality of his new life. He licks his lips, looks down at his boots and Sam’s Converse. He fears raising his gaze, that Sam’s reaction will match their father’s judgment. 

Sam moves his hand to stroke Dean’s arm, “Dean. It’s so good to see you, Man.”

Dean shoves down the, admittedly larger, part of him that wants to whine ‘Sammy’ and stay wrapped in his embrace. He wriggles out of the hug, in as mature a fashion as he is able, and lets his wronged side take control.

He braces his back against the wall and points his finger, “Why did you ignore my calls? Why are you here? Freaking Hell, how are you here? Aren’t you meant to be in Stanford, too busy to speak to your family?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” Sam wipes damps eyes with the back of his hand. His scent sours with uncertainty. “I didn’t know what to say, how to start after all this time. When I found out…”

“But I told you,” Dean blurts, eyes wide, not letting Sam finish.

“What?” Sam’s head jerks back. 

“I left messages on your phone, with Brady, but you never…” Dean’s voice breaks, worn from repeated disappointments.

Sam takes three steps in one, pulling his brother into a new patent crushing hug, “I never got ‘em. I swear, Dean. I thought you’d dropped me like Dad ordered.”

Sam’s hazel eyes dip to chocolate with emotion. Dean presses his palm to his little brother’s cheek, tanned from Californian sun even at this time of year. He takes a moment to assess Sam. He’s taller, which hadn’t seemed possible, but hasn’t yet built up alpha muscle that his adult frame promises. He looks on the thin side to Dean’s critical eye, maybe not eating enough living on that scholarship of his. Dean always made sure Sam was a well fed growing alpha, so much so that while Dean’s ribs were boney, twelve year old Sam was verging on chubby, until John stepped in with a military training regime. 

Musing, scent inhaling, and stroking his brother’s face are interrupted by Sam adding softly, gaze dropped, “Dean, I…” He pauses to huff, commencing a rationalized explanation, “I wanted a new life, a….”

Too tossed about emotionally to listen to the ‘normal life’ spiel again, Dean raises his palm. His omega caretaking is driven by his love for Sam. It pleads with him to forgive and forget, but the last couple of years have not been kind ones. Dean went through dark, difficult and lonely days that could have been brightened and made more bearable by hearing Sam’s voice. 

“Yadda yadda. Normal people have families, y’know?”

“I know. I do, Dean.” Sam’s voice takes on a pleading tone. “I guess, at first I needed a complete break from The Life, from feeling so out of place, so wrong all the time. Then it got harder to pick up the phone, the longer I didn’t call…”

“I called.” Dean folds his arms.

Sam takes a breath, blinking at his older brother. “What can I say? Brady screens my calls. It started as a joke, that he was my PA, but I’d told him, freshman year, that I didn’t want to speak to anyone from before…”

“Do you still hate us that much? That you couldn’t make an exception…” Dean wants to say ‘for me’, but it hurts too much, sounds too selfish, won’t pass the lump in his throat.

“I’m sorry. For real. So sorry, Dean. I should have. I never thought about it. Never asked Brady about who called or what they said. Stanford is like a whole different world, but I should have….”

“So how come you are here now? Did you answer Bobby’s call?”

“What? Bobby?” Sam shakes his head. “John turned up, drunk and ranting. He turned up at my dorm. Stinking drunk alpha Dad. I could barely look at him as he hissed low enough that others wouldn’t hear that he needed me for a hunt. A hunt? I told him where to send that idea. But then he says last time he hunted ghouls solo he got injured, so I shot back at him where was…” Sam winces, “his obedient little soldier.”

Dean draws breath through his nostrils. The joy of seeing Sam is fading under well worn arguments and insults. He hears the creak of floorboards from above. Benny is at the top of the stairs, to call when Dean needs him. He is not intruding on their reunion. He waits for Dean’s signal, gifting the brothers a semblance of privacy. Deep in Dean’s bones, the trust and rightness of this helps him to summon his inner strength. He raises his head to face his alpha brother eye to eye. Defiant, he is shocked to find Sam’s eyes liquid with pain.

“Damn bastard said you were gone with such finality. And I thought, geez Dean, I thought you were dead. I had him pinned to the wall, wanted to rip his throat out. The security guys, who turned up to kick him out, had to pull me off him. I was roaring, demanding he tell me what happened. Then he laughs. He laughed at me. Told me you weren’t killed in action, that you’d followed my lead, and walked away, that I should call Bobby if I wanted.” 

“Ahem,” Bobby clears his throat, stepping inside, “Y’all think I could come into my own house now?” 

“You knew?” Dean gapes at him. 

“How’d you think a frigging student on a scholarship got the greenbacks to fly to Sioux Falls for Spring Break?”

“I called Bobby,” Sam resumes, “You were in Texas chasing a ghost.”

Dean nods, lips pressed tight, reserving judgment.

“I kind of freaked about you hunting on your own.”

“Been doing that a while, dude. And I wasn’t alone.”

“Bobby filled me in.” Sam’s eyes fix on Dean’s collar. “You were with your mate. I know I could have called, but I didn’t know what to say. Bobby sorted it for me to come once we broke up for Spring Break.”

“Shoulda been here an hour ago, if your layover wasn’t delayed in Denver.” Bobby grouches, patting Sam and then Dean on the shoulder as he bypasses them to enter the living area, “Well, idjits, gonna stand there like staring hat-stands all day. And you,” Bobby shouts upwards, “Lafitte, get your butt down here too.”

Benny makes his appearance, coming downstairs and taking Dean’s hand in his. He rubs circles with his thumb. Dean tilts his head to his mate. Benny looks good, freshly showered, beard trimmed, wearing his dark canvas trousers and grey suspenders over a neutral flannel collarless shirt.

“Sam, this is my Alpha, Benny Lafitte.” Dean might be verging on formality, but he wants to show his baby brother that Benny is deserving of his respect. “Alpha, this is Sam.”

Benny extends a hand. For a second, there is hesitation. Dean dies inside, before Sam steels his nerve or his sense of decorum, and grips the older alpha’s palm. The shake is brief and crushing on both sides, more a declaration of cold war hostility than joining of new family.

“Pleased to meetcha, Brother,” Benny nods, keeping his free arm tight around Dean’s waist, “Heard a lot about you, Sam.”

“Yeah?” Sam throws a quick glance at Dean who shrugs. What does Sam want? A recap of every word Dean has told his alpha? A lot of it was boasting of how great Sam is, how clever he is, how proud Dean is of him. No way is Dean gonna reveal those details. Sam’s head might explode.

“Sofa?” Benny jerks his head towards the window. The omega nods, glowing at how his mate knows room to sit on his alpha’s lap is just what Dean needs about now.

Sam gapes as his tough hunter brother climbs onto Benny’s wide lap, tucking his feet into the seat cushions, leaning his back to his alpha’s chest. 

“Having trouble there, Sam?” Dean cannot help rubbing his mated status in, just a little. Fact is Sam could have known, could have been their witness at their mating ceremony, if he had kept in touch.

“No.” Sam looks awkward, “I guess… You look like mates.”

“Whatd’ya expect?” Dean snorts, “Freaking two headed hydra?”

Sam grins. Tension dissipates. He flops into a chair. Bobby appears with three beers and a vitamin shake for Dean.

“When this pup is weaned, I want a crate of El Sol.” Dean snickers, slurping down the admittedly tasty fruit concoction.

“When the what is the where now?” Sam asks leaning dramatically forward.

“Balls.” Bobby hisses.

“You didn’t tell him?” Dean’s eyes dart from Bobby to Sam. Benny’s hand drifts inconspicuously down over Dean’s stomach.

“You scent much sweeter, Dean,” Sam’s big brain begins to process the news, “But mates’ scents combine…. Oh My God… Oh My Freaking God…”

“Ha! There it dawns.” Dean intones.

“A pup?”

Sam vaults forward. Incidentally his new brother-in-law gets swamped in the congratulatory hug. 

“Oh My God, Dean, that’s amazing.” Sam huffs in wonder. “I’m going to be an uncle.”

“How did he get that scholarship?” Bobby snorts fondly.

“When? What? How?”

Benny chuckles. “You sure you wanna know that, Bub?”

Sam blushes, kneeling on the mat to look up at his brother, “You must have come off sups a while ago? Did Dad relent?”

Dean gulps. “No, wasn’t that Sam. I guess I finally found that backbone you thought I didn’t possess.”

Benny’s chest rumbles a low protective growl.

Sam looks horrified. “I never meant…”

“It’s all good, Sammy. I obeyed Dad, every time, always, but what we did, it was to revenge Mom, but it was also to protect you, keep you safe… and with you gone, and hunting, and travelling, and growing up,” Dean shrugs one shoulder, “I stopped ‘em. We had a huge blow out fight and he got me on them again, alpha-ordered me. But I was up in the Cascades, and I ran out, and I never renewed my scripts, didn’t tell him, and this time when we met up again in Philadelphia he kicked my ass to the curb and sent me off to a godforsaken island off Maine to get out of his sight, thought it was a non-hunt, I figure, and that I’d see sense, crawl back to him and take the freaking sups and maskers.”

The short speech drains his energy but it gives his attentive brother the headline news.

“You okay, Sugar?” Benny breathes into his ear.

“Yes, Alpha.” Dean leans back against his firm chest. “Found a real hunt on Gauntlet and found my mate.”

Benny kisses below his collar, on the side of his claiming bite.

“Wow.” Sam puffs. “Did you know? I mean, immediately, that you were mates?”

Dean is saved from delving into his clandestine romantic feelings.

“The moment I saw him,” Benny says wistfully squeezing Dean closer, “I wanted to save, cherish, protect and hold him forever. I wanted to bare my teeth and tear into every motherfucking asshole who would dare to inflict hurt or pain on him.”

Dean shivers in a mix of swoon-like desire with an undercurrent memory wave of his alpha ripping into the douchebags out back of The Lookout. A small release of slick dampens below. A purring rumble and hard pressing on Dean’s crack tells that his alpha is just as inopportunely aroused.

“Impressive.” Sam nods, either not picking up, or diplomatically ignoring the release of mating pheromones. He meets Benny’s gaze straight on, “I better be sure that I don’t fall into asshole category.”

“You don’t.” Dean is quick to reassure, while picking up on cues in Benny’s scent that his Alpha is deadly serious that if Sam does hurt his omega, then he will feel Benny’s wrath. Dean rubs his palm down the side of Benny’s thigh. A drop in alpha confrontation pheromones would be great right about now. 

Seems Bobby agrees, “How about some food, guys? Sam betchya you’ve been grazing on in-flight snacks since dawn?”

Dean tenses to jump up, raid Bobby’s kitchen and rustle up a nutritious meal for his family.

“Stay.” Benny mutters. 

“Alpha,” Dean dampens down his instinct to follow jump with how high, almost sighing as he relaxes his muscles.

Bobby’s eyebrows rise and fall at their little display of domestic give and take. Sam’s eyes have narrowed too. Dean wishes he knew what his brother is thinking. Long time ago he believed he could virtually read Sam’s young mind, as every emotion played across his brother’s expressive face, every little scent change setting off programmed bells in Dean’s noggin, but all that was dashed when Sam’s secret plans for Stanford were revealed, and now Dean wonders how much his brother has changed, grown, matured in the intervening time.

“How about Mexican?” Bobby suggests. “Mesquite still does the best TexMex in Sioux Falls, Sam.”

“Can’t we do burgers?” Dean bleats.

“Not every night, Darlin’” Benny chuckles.

“We had pizza last night.” Dean pouts.

“Thought you couldn’t get better cheese chili fries than at Mesquite.” Sam reminds Dean of their teenage takeout treats at Bobby’s.

“Sure, says the guy who ordered a taco salad every time.” Dean nods, a small smile rising on both brothers’ faces at the shared memory. 

“Menu is in the stack of papers on the ledge,” Bobby points to the kitchen. “Dean and I know what we want.”

Smacking his lips in anticipation of spicy cheesy beefy goodness, Dean confirms, “Uh-huh. I’ll have the Grande Burrito, with all the fixings.”

“And extra onions.” The other three parrot in unison.

Mildly offended that his refined palate is so predictable, Dean shelves his effort to come up with a witty retort, instead he challenges, “Betchya can’t guess my dessert choice.”

“Only ‘cause they’ve got six kinds of pie,” Bobby snorts.

Dean sniffs, “The pup wants a slice of key lime. Oh and those mini donuts on a stick smothered in confectioners’ sugar.”

“The pup does,” Benny exaggerates a sage nod. 

Dean hums his confirmation.

“Why don’t you alpha boys make your selections?” Bobby prompts. 

Benny lifts Dean from his lap, eliciting a small whine of protest, that the omega is sure was too quiet for the others to hear. Once Benny and Sam are in the kitchen area, Bobby swivels towards Dean.

“We good, Son?”

Dean is perplexed. He would like a clue here.

“’Bout Sam? That day I urged you to call him, I was hoping to Hell you’d agree, ‘cause I’d already spilled the proverbial beans all over the floor.”

Dean sniggers at the image of Bobby surrounded by scattered dried beans. “We’re good. I dunno if my pride would ever have allowed you to make that call, but y’know, it’s damned nice to have the pipsqueak here.”

“He’s mighty tall for a pipsqueak.” Bobby reaches to pat Dean’s knee, double tapping his understanding. 

At the edge of Dean’s hearing he picks up his family alphas’ voices change into hissed challenging whispers. He rises, brow drawn, edging closer.

“…will find work in Idaho… provide for my mate and pup… No way will he live in the manner your father raised you boys.”

“I didn’t want him or me to live under Dad’s thumb.” 

“Then why did you bail on Dean?” Benny glares at Sam.

Dean is torn between his two most beloved alphas. “Benny, no.”

The older alpha remains focused on Sam, whose nostrils are almost steaming in defiance. The atmosphere is pinging with alpha antagonism.

“Your omega brother, you couldn’t offer him a place to lay his head, a home?” Benny spits wrongs that have been brewing in his brain for months, “Why didn’t you give him that? Why did you leave him there?”

“I’m a student.” Sam protests. “I’m struggling to fight my way through college.”

“Excuses.” Benny fires back.

Dean opens his mouth to find peacemaking words but he is stumped. They are fighting about him, what does he say? If he says it is fine, then he is taking Sam’s side and it is not fine. If he accuses Sam, he rubs salt into his little brother’s regrets.

“And I suppose you are all that.” Sam curls his nose, “Living on charity…”

“That is enough.” Dean actually waves his palm in the narrow space between their faces. “Charity? Sammy?”

Sam manages to look both sheepish and wounded puppy at the same time.

Dean continues tersely, “We have done a deal with Alice, a sweet deal, helped by Bobby, but we’ve a side to uphold. Is your scholarship charity? And what the ever living fuck is wrong with taking help, Sammy? Have you conveniently forgotten goodwill stores, used school texts donations, nights I queued at homeless soup vans to get us a meal? Do you think Dad left oodles of cash at Jim’s, Bobby’s, or Donna’s in Housatonic, when he’d vanish for weeks?”

“No, Dean,” Sam hangs his shamefaced head.

“It is not going to be like that,” Benny stresses, “We are not raising our pup on the road.”

“Damn right.” Dean mutters.

“I hear ya,” Sam sighs, “I only wanted to…”

“Watch my back?” Dean offers a conciliatory grin, “Hey, Sammy, Alpha is one of the good ones. You don’t need to worry.”

Sam nods. He offers his hand to Benny who grasps it firmly. The handshake is a do over, still bone cracking but this time both alphas are on even solid ground.

Bobby breaks the moment by reminding everyone that they were meant to be sorting their evening meal. He almost initiates new conflict when he insists on paying for and collecting their last night in Sioux Falls cum family reunion feast. 

Benny grabs his coat to accompany him. He throws an arm over Dean’s shoulders, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You and Sam got a lot of talking to do. Take a spell without your protective surrogate uncle and your nosy mate about.”

Dean plants his hands on his alpha’s cheeks. He tips their noses together and rubs a caress. “Not nosy” grinning wide, sharing air. “Curious growly protective alpha.”

“Amazing, wonderful, strong omega,” Benny returns, hushed into the shell of Dean’s ear.

Resisting the urge to smack Benny’s rear, Dean beams, watching as his mate turns in the doorway to wink goodbye.

“So Sammy? You wanna unpack your shit?” Dean jerks his head upwards, “Our old room is free. Alpha and me are at the end of the corridor.”

Sam bends down to the duffel at his feet, rooting between his clothes, “Sorta hard to bring you a waffle iron, and though Bobby sounded pleased with it all, I wasn’t sure what I’d find, so I got you this.”

A key is pressed into Dean’s palm. He squints at it, then at his brother.

Sam licks his lips, drops his gaze to the gift he has just given. His bangs fall over his eyes. “It’s a key.”

“Yes, Captain Obvious?”

“To my dorm room.” Sam rushes on, “And it’s not cause of what your mate said just now. I had the copy made in Palo Alto. And I know it’s like millions of months too late, but if you ever need somewhere…”

Dean figures there is a part of him that should be insulted on behalf of his alpha, or a piece of him ready to berate Sam for all the times he could have bolted to California since that fateful night when he drove Sammy to the bus, but instead he is one hundred percent freaking touched and downright speechless. His scent and his face tell Sam enough. The young alpha nods with a slender smile. The beam Dean returns heals a lot of paper-cut wounds.

“I won’t need it.” Dean says as he follows Sam to the kitchen and they begin to lay out cutlery and plates. “Unless I come to wreak my revenge by midnight pranking.”

“Ha!” Sam teases, “With your mate and a pup trailing along?”

“Could call you up every time the pup wakes in the night.” Dean sticks to his theme.

“Could trust Brady with my phone 24/7,” Sam quickly returns.

“Would serve him right for not passing my messages.” Dean winces, “I mean, I told him I was mated.”

It is Sam’s turn to wince. “He didn’t believe you.”

“What? Sammy, who jokes about shit like that?”

“I know,” Sam plunks down on a chair. “He was pretty sorry when John left.”

“Less about the douchey alpha buds you’ve picked up in California.” Dean says for the sake of the warm fraternal banter he has been enjoying. “How you been?”

“Good.” Sam cards a hand through his hair. “Great. I love Stanford. Pre-law is fascinating. You should see the libraries.”

“Libraries? What about your love life, Sammy? Come on, no dorky admirers?” Dean joshes.

Sam shakes his head at Dean’s tease. His bites down on his lower lip.

“There is!” Dean whoops. “I knew it. Come on, spill, Tiger!”

“Shuddup, I blew off my third date to come see your annoying ass.”

“My ass is in no way annoying. Ask Benny.... Ahem, did you say you got to third base?”

“No, Jerk!” Sam laughs. “Jessica is… she’s not a fumble in the back seat kind of omega. Brady introduced us. Jess writes for The Stanford Daily and she was doing a series on scholarship students. She’s intelligent, real put together, and wow, Man, is she pretty.”

“Way out of your league then?”

“Shuddup.” Sam repeats.

Waiting for the others to return, Dean can sense his little brother’s thoughts turning down a more serious path. He opens his mouth to suggest TV as a diversion, but Sam’s got his palms turned up on his lap, fingers touching. Dean braces for some unwelcome comment or inquisition.

“You seem happy, Dean.” Sam begins. “But, you know, this isn’t what I would have wanted for you. You could have gone to university, had a life of your own too.”

“Can you even hear yourself?”

“What?”

“You and Dad are more alike than you’ll admit. He wanted me to be his beta hunting partner. You’d have me slaving over books for some academic goal.”

“You are more than capable, Dean, I doubt you’d have to slave to succeed.”

“But I don’t want that. I wanted it for you, wanted you to achieve your nerdy dreams. I got my GED,” He ignores Sam’s pitying headshake. “This is my life. I have my alpha. We are making a new home together, a safe harbor for our pup. Please, Sam, can you try to, I dunno, understand, even if you can’t be happy for me?”

Sam pulls out the puppy dog eyes. “I want to be happy for you. I think back to all those times it drove me crazy when you would follow every demand Dad made. I would lose my temper, but I was never angry at you, Dean. Not really.”

“Sammy…”

“You would bend and flex to suit his needs, and I could see, I could see how hard it was, but he was my Alpha-Dad too, and no matter how I defied or tried to stand up to him, it made no difference. I was so scared that one day you’d snap like a twig.”

“Hey,” Dean urges Sam back into the now, “Hey Sammy. I’m good. Don’t freak out on me. I’m good. I got my own life, like you wanted.”

“But do you? I see you collared. Geez Dean, it’s not like I didn’t think that one day you’d find a mate, but you’re wearing his collar, sitting on his lap like a freaking doll,” Sam grows more outraged as he speaks. “Hell, Dean, you don’t even call him by name.”

Much to Sam consternation, Dean bursts out laughing. He bends double, tears verging on rolling down his cheeks. “Oh Sam,” He tries to catch his breath, “Oh Geez. Benny… he wanted me to use his name, but it was a tease, a flick of whatever, my contrariness. It makes me put my tongue in my cheek and call him Alpha. Haven’t you seen how cute he smiles when I do it?”

“You for real?”

“Yes!” Dean protests, “It’s our in-joke. He never commands me, orders me about like Dad. Me and Benny, we make our decisions together. If I know more, like on a hunt, I take the lead… am ‘Alpha General’ Benny says.”

“Okay,” Sam intones carefully. “Alright. I’ll give him a break. But I’m calling him out on anything suspect.”

“Benny? Suspect? You’ll be waiting until you’re old and grey, Princess.” Dean chortles.

“I hope so.” Sam says softly, a mini-smile gracing his features, just enough to let shallow dimples show. With a beckoning gesture he asks Dean to sit beside him, “Can I scent you?”

Dean plops down, brows drawn tight at the unexpected question.

“I’ve missed you, Dee.” Sam verges on shy. “And I’d like to pick up the sweetness of the pup.”

“I’m not removing my collar. And it is my collar, I picked it and I wanted it.” Dean pronounces defensively while tilting his neck for his little brother’s cold nose to find a home under his ear. “Bitch! You could least have warmed up the tip of your honker.”

“Shuddup.” Sam murmurs into his skin. 

Dean rests his hand on his brother’s back, almost unconsciously stroking his spine. So many times over the years, Sam would be upset about moving, about bullies, about not meeting his own scholarly expectations. To the world and their father he had to present a tough alpha front, but being consoled by Dean behind closed doors, Sam could be a pup, young, vulnerable, sensitive and loving.

“Missed you too.” Dean confesses, resting his head against Sam’s skull.

When the smell of hot spicy goodness jerks Dean from his and Sam’s fugue like intermission, everyone treads the strategic path of never mentioning finding sleepily relaxed brothers with chairs tilted together, arms entangled like little pups.


	16. Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mpreg birth (non-graphic imho) and fluff, lots of fluffy fluff.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSPN++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Long warm summer days turn to fall, finding the Lafitte mates firmly settled in their home, or ‘Nested to Dean’s Satisfaction’ as Benny calls it to anyone who enquires. They get to know their neighbors, all long time residents whose properties are spread sparsely along Dingle Road south from Montpelier to Bear Lake. Their cabin, on the east side of the stretch, is set back from the road, with just shy of an acre of private back lot behind. This measure of privacy is welcome on the few occasions that they do entertain passing hunters. Weary dudes, and one alpha huntress, grace their home less frequently than Dean had imagined. Sometimes weeks will go by without any new face, although in May, while they were still trying to get the cabin into ship shape, they had four unexpected visits. All, save one, have been made welcome, given a place to lay their heads and rest up. Learning from experience, Benny has a stack of pancakes in the freezer and vacuum packed bacon always in the refrigerator. Dean possesses a well stocked amateur emergency medical kit. Benny turns a blind eye when stitched up Beta Walt contributes contraband Percocet to Dean’s hoard as a gesture of thankfulness for the omega’s care. The only hunter refused refuge is a raving lunatic who turns up in the middle of a chilly moonless October night. Spouting shouted nonsense about vampires who had gotten his sister, the dude claims he has a vampire chained up in his truck and is looking for somewhere to torture it for information. There is not a hope in Hell that Alpha Benny Lafitte would let that wacko through the door of his home. Dean turns over in their bed, rubs circles on his pup bump, puts his pillow over his ears, assuring Benny that vampires are as imaginary as Bigfoot and the Tooth Fairy. 

At the tail end of his summer break, Sam comes to spend time with his brother. He had retained his in term time job in a local Palo Alto bookstore during the vacation, but arranged ten wonderful days in Idaho before he would return to Stanford. Hoping his alpha brother was not expecting a relaxed easy going spell, Dean and Benny get Sam involved in their cabin projects. They do take him to see the local sights and to eat at both their favorite diner and Benny’s workplace, however the main event of Sam’s stay is planting a fine solid six foot high fence into a perimeter trench of salted concrete. It is a two man job, with Dean as advice giver. Benny cannot complain about Dean’s instructions of ‘Right a bit’ or ‘Is that level?’, because he had almost fallen to his knees reasoning with his omega that such heavy work is out of the question at six months pregnant. If Sam mutters cuss words about his bossy omega brother, then Dean, who understands a grouchy Sammy better than anyone, takes them with a pinch of salt. More accurately he refills the sugar shaker with salt and watches with undisguised glee as Sam drenches his douchey fruit salad.

Throughout fall the aspens surrounding their cabin glow flame red, enticing Dean to wrap up warm and take his much craved hot chocolate mugs on their renovated porch swing. Benny joins him in the evenings, bringing blankets and extra rugs, until the temperatures dip low and they adjourn to cozy log fires, snuggling in front of the TV. The glorious trees shed their leaves in one blow out November storm. Encroaching icy tentacles of winter on mountain trails provoke contradiction. The landscape is bleaker and yet offers a warm reminder to beloved mates of meeting on Gauntlet amid snowfalls, Atlantic gales, and ice covered paths. 

Thanksgiving is a quiet affair. Benny works the morning shift at The Soda Springs Resort, less than an hour north. His alpha brings back holiday fare, so cooking does not need to happen at home. Dean does ensure there is a pot of homemade tomato rice soup on the stove, so he can serve a cup to warm his alpha’s bones when he returns. Meanwhile there are calls to Bobby, who is on a hunt outside Cincinnati, and to Sam, who is spending the day with the Moore family a few hours journey south of Palo Alto. Dean is on the verge of asking Bobby to research some nefarious spell to bring on labor, but he would never in a million years put his pup in the way of harm, so the idea of magically popping his son out remains a wistful fantasy. 

Afternoon into evening, involves an uncomfortably overdue Dean being plied with multiple varieties of pie while indulging in an Indiana Jones marathon. Benny joins him on their comfy sofa, wrapping him in warm arms, humming Cajun lullabies into his hair when the last movie ends. 

The following day, melancholy dips Dean down. He rests his hand on the dripping kitchen faucet. Benny has promised fix it. It probably needs a new washer. Dean would do it in a flash, but his current impression of a basketball carrier prevents clambering into the cabinet below to turn off the water. He stares through the wide glass of their kitchen window overlooking the white dusted icy back yard with bare trees. Benny has been taking on any overtime available at the hotel, doing room service nights and breakfast service along with his official role as Hofbrau Lunch King. Dean tells his inner neglected mate that his alpha is putting in all this effort so he can take vacation time from the moment their boy enters the world. Just about now, Dean craves company. He shakes his head at how ludicrous his hormones are making him. All those days when it was just his Alpha-Dad and him, when his muscles ached and his head pounded from suppressant side effects, there was nothing Dean wanted more than peace and quiet, except maybe Sam back in his life. He tries to pull his emotions out of a downer by counting his blessings, of Sam being on the end of a phone or a laptop and coming for the holidays, of the peace and safety of their own protected home, of being able to offer some assistance to other hunters, and of his beloved mate who really should be getting his ass home soon.

The sound of the door banging and a zephyr of freezing air presages Benny’s arrival. Dean smiles without realizing it.

“Cold as a witch’s tit,” Benny drawls, “to borrow one of Bobby’s phrases.”

Dean tilts his cheek for a kiss. 

“What ya doing, Sugar?” Benny asks as he begins to peel off layers of scarf, coat and jacket.

“Thinking.” Dean admits.

“Good thoughts?” 

“Dunno,” Dean sighs, “I wish my Mom was here.”

The words pain him. Mary has been on his mind. More as he enters the final days of his pregnancy. He misses her. He wishes she was here to witness this, to offer golden nuggets of advice, to see her grandson. He would have loved her to be there for his ultrasounds, to join with Benny in feeling their pup’s early kicks, to be able to grouse and moan about acid reflux and swollen ankles to the one person who could have intimately both understood and unconditionally loved him. His memories of Sam’s birth are hazy at best. One day Mom was rounded with Sammy in her belly, then she was in hospital where Dean couldn’t see her, and then a squirming pink milky scented pup was being presented to him as his little brother. He treasures and hoards every snippet of memory of his wonderful omega mother, and vows that if he can be even a fraction as awesome with his own pup he will have done a very good job indeed.

Benny pulls Dean under his arm, leaning his head on his mate’s. “I know you do. I wish my parents were still with us. I know they’d have loved you, Darlin’.”

Dean huffs lightly. Even after all these months he finds it hard not to dismiss the astounding compliments that his alpha whispers in his ear.

“Mom would’ve adored you.” Dean says, and as he does he believes it completely. Mary would have thrown a parade for such a mate as Benny who offers such loving care and joy to her firstborn pup.

Pup Lafitte picks that moment to head butt or placekick his omega mother with crushing force. Dean lets out a whoosh of air.

“Someone’s more awake than his Daddy.” Benny adds a wide yawn.

“That’s it.” Dean declares. “Naps all round.”

“How about you brew me a double strength Joe, and I fix that damned faucet?” Benny offers but his eyes are drooping.

“Fourteen hours since you walked out that door to cover stupid dumb flaky night cook Billy’s absence,” Dean plants a hand on where he is sure his hip is hiding, “I say we all lie down a spell. I’ll put Dr Sexy on the portable in the bedroom if you’ll be bored.”

Benny snorts a fond chuckle. “Do you want to sleep, or beg me to deal with your fanboy hard on?”

Dean whacks him on the arm. He wiggles his eyebrows. “Hey, Alpha, any incidental sexy times will have nothing to do with Dr Sexy.”

“Damn right, Sugar, ‘cause TV’s staying off.” Benny insists, tugging a very willing Dean by the arm towards their bedroom.

If the smirk on the omega’s face is due to everything working out exactly as he planned, then no one need know how he used Benny’s jealousy of his favorite show for the win.

Late that night the sky is crystal clear, stars bright to the south. The glow of Montpelier’s street lights obscures them slightly in the northern sky. Dean takes a mug of hot chocolate to the porch, wrapped up against the chill, one blanket covering his legs and a plaid rug over his shoulders. 

“You good?” Benny enquires as he follows.

“Uh-hum,” Dean nods. His lower back has been niggling since their pleasant short afternoon nap. When a contraction hits him like a wave, he knows with deep certainty that it is not Braxton Hicks. 

Benny knows too, scenting the air with pupils dilated. “Are you started?”

“Maybe,” Dean doesn’t want to raise hopes, but he feels that his pup is coming. He cups his bump, imagining he can feel energy thrumming through his skin. 

His hot chocolate has been consumed when the second wave peaks and eases away. He nods at Benny who hustles to call the hospital, put Dean’s birthing bags into the Impala, and let the hotel know he won’t be there in the morning.

Dean alternately grips his mate’s arm or leg on the short trip from their rural retreat. Being in physical contact with his alpha imbues him with strength and calms the dancing butterflies in his gullet. One more contraction comes on the way to the birthing center, but as soon as he is admitted another grips him. It is like their pup knows it is time to be born. 

Kelsey, his midwife, who has been a rock of sense during Dean’s pre-natal appointments, is a calming professional presence. The blonde petite omega, with her long bobbed hair, dark framed stylish glasses, and inch wide black lace collar is softly spoken but her experienced tiny hands hold incredible strength. She authoritatively takes control of her realm, allowing the mates to focus on each other and the birth, leaving all other worries and concerns to her.

Bear Lake General’s policy of allowing Alpha-mates in the delivery room, unless and until they prove they can’t handle seeing their mate in pain, makes Dean want to nominate the hospital for the medical world’s equivalent of the Oscars. Benny fights growly instincts numerous times over the next few hours as Dean is poked, is prodded and copes with contractions of increasing length and frequency. Kelsey understands Benny’s point of view too, telling them anecdotes of her alpha mate going from woozy and stunned at their first pup’s birth to virtual birth manager by their third. 

To his own surprise Dean remains composed and not overly anxious during the hours in the delivery room. He enters that almost meditative calm mindset of a hunt, focused on the end result rather than the immediate pain and stress. Each wave of building lengthening contraction brings him closer to his goal. Midnight finds Dean stroking his overcome alpha’s arm offering solace and hopeful comfort. His scent remains sweet, if strained, while Benny’s swings between nervous, excited, and overwhelming affection.

The final phase is like a whirlwind of medical personnel and cresting one tidal wave of pain to be buffeted by the next. Having Benny’s warm hand to hold offers an anchor and a pillar of support. He needs his alpha beside him, cannot imagine doing this without him, and spares a thought for omegas who by circumstance must battle through giving birth without their mates. Dean parses Benny’s cooed words of praise, repeatedly telling that he is doing so good and how proud he is of him. 

As his whole being seems to be one fiery ball of bearing down, Dean’s potty mouth breaks through his reserve. However not his gritted teeth and ground out “Son of bitches” nor his shouted “Motherfucking, get this pup out of me”, imprint themselves in Dean’s long term memory. All consuming burning pain and effort is transmuted by alchemy into elation and amazement, as he hears his pup make his first tentative cry. Dean will remember his son being laid on his chest, tickling his white flecked newborn cheek with his finger, Benny’s large hand coming to cradle their boy’s head, and the unbelievable love that blooms fierce and eternal in his chest for his tiny pup. 

“He scents of newness and wonder.” Benny says sappily, but Dean forgives him because he agrees.

“He was late to the party,” Kelsey teases, referring to Dean’s due date. She lifts the baby carefully to take him to be cleaned up and for his newborn tests. “But you are very welcome to the world, Pup Lafitte.”

Dean immediately feels the loss of skin to skin contact. He bites down on his chapped lips, enduring their temporary separation. Benny’s kisses distract him, as do the acts made to tidy Dean up by Kelsey’s colleague. He has a minor tear to his perineum but doesn’t require stitches. Although overdue, his son was accommodatingly on the small side, and Dean feels a certain pride at being told he is very flexible. 

When they bring his boy back, Dean cradles his wonderful swaddled pup in his arms. He can’t get enough of scenting him, gazing at him, and holding him close. Benny climbs onto the edge of the mattress to share in their awe. He shuffles under the edge of the primrose yellow hospital blanket. Dean grins privately that coming onto the bed was the only way his poor alpha was going to get so close. He is bonding with his pup, and there is nothing like it. No words can explain. He opens his mouth to attempt to tell Benny how awesome and out of this world it is. Benny’s blue peepers are wet and full of the same emotions galloping through Dean’s heart. He grasps Benny’s fingers, under their son’s body, and squeezes tight.

“Goddamn, I love you, Alpha.” Dean imparts hoarsely.

“Me too, love you both, so much,” Benny gulps. “Our son.”

“Our own pup.” Dean watches his tiny perfect lips part, his little hands flex, and his deep blue eyes flicker open.

“Alexander Samuel Lafitte?” Benny repeats their preferred name as a query, checking if Dean still is on board now that they have met their son.

“Alex,” Dean nods, sinking his forehead further to lightly press against his little boy’s brow. He inhales sweet milky goodness, picking up the early tendrils of Alex’s settling unique profile. Pups scent close to their mothers’ profile at birth, but Dean isolates soft warmed syrupy ginger, reflecting Benny’s cinnamon and ginger baked taffy spices. 

“I’m breathing your balsam sugar in his skin.” Benny murmurs.

Dean hums, “I was gonna tell you he has your spicy candy.”

“Your perfect nose and gorgeous big eyes.” Benny croons.

Dean doesn’t correct his alpha about all newborn pups having big eyes, or say how he hopes Alex’s eyes will be Benny’s clear summer lake blue. “Our Alex has your strong jaw and calm demeanor.”

Benny chuckles, bopping their shoulders together. “He is not yet an hour old, Mon Cher, he may have your feisty personality.”

“You mean he is going to be terror?” Dean shakes his head, “Nu-huh, Alpha, Alex is a good pup. Aren’t you Alexander Samuel? You are going to be charm to feed, sleep through the night, not throw your dirty diapers on the floor like your Uncle Sammy…”

“I hope your predictions come true, Sugar,” Benny snorts fond laughter.

“And if they don’t, we will love you just the same, Pup,” Dean promises his bundle of wondrous joy.

“A clean bill of health,” Kelsey pronounces when she interrupts their family bonding time. “Five pounds twelve ounces, 19 inches, and a little alpha pup.”

“Alpha?” Dean gapes. It does not matter if Alex is alpha, beta, or omega, but modern medicine being able to tell weeks before a pup’s gender scent pattern settles is a marvel. 

Benny puffs his chest out, as if he did all the work. Dean rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny his mate this moment of pride. There is certain comfort in parenting an alpha pup. He has done it once, learned from his childish mistakes and his successes with Sammy. Overall Dean reckons he did a pretty good job, with minimal input from John. He raised Sam to be a wonderful young alpha.

“You’re not disappointed?” Benny asks discreetly, evoking both mates to recall late night blanket cocoon time conversations of how they would raise an omega pup to be a proud strong person.

“How could I be?” Dean blinks up at his dear alpha. “He is perfect and I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“We might have an omega the next time.” Benny muses aloud.

“Hold your freaking horses right there, Cowboy.” Dean huffs disbelievingly, “When I do have my next heat, it’s gonna involve toys, blow jobs, and alpha knotting condoms, you capisce?”

“Aye, Aye,” Benny playfully salutes. “Lieutenant Prophylactic will report for duty, Sir. Will be ready, Sir.”

Dean huffs fondly, “Doofus.”

“Your doofus.”

“All mine.” Dean grins.

“Uh-huh, Sugar. Don’t you forget it.” Benny caresses Dean’s cheek lightly.

“My family,” Dean puffs, rocking sleepy Alex ever so.

Once his newborn has taken his first feed and been placed in the cradle beside Dean’s bed, welcome rest beckons to the new parents too. However Dean resists the pull of The Sandman and the warmth of his hospital room. He asks for his cell phone and spreads his good news across the country. While Benny shares his glee with his work mates, Andrea, and Mac back on Gauntlet. Dean wakes Bobby eliciting whoops of undisguised joy. He gets Pastor Jim’s heartfelt blessing and Sam’s voicemail. It’s a punch to the guts for the few moments before Sam returns his call. 

“Past your bedtime?” Dean teases following his sleep addled little brother’s grouchy hello.

“Hey, Dean , it’s…” Sam fumbles, “almost 2AM here, Dude.”

“Well, I figure if Alpha Alex Sammy Lafitte spent his first hour awake, then his uncle can…”

Dean’s words are lost as Sam squawks, “Uncle?”

“That is what was going to happen when I had my pup,” Dean cannot help continuing to josh his brother. He does have mercy, when he hears floundering half-words on the other end of the line, “He’s freaking gorgeous, Sammy. All fingers and toes present.”

“And you, Dean? Are you OK?” Sam asks with hushed urgency. It is a bit late to commence whispers in the night. The dorm has probably been woken already by Sam’s screeches.

“Without making you protest ‘TMI’, I’m sore, but good. So good, I’m better than peachy, better than golden.” Dean is momentarily distracted as Benny tells him that Mac gave him hell for waking him but will pass on their news to Geoff and Jonah.

“I’m so freaking happy for you.” Sam gulps and sniffles.

Dean can conjure with great affection Sammy’s ugly alpha crying face.

“Wait until you meet him,” Dean enthuses, “Benny and I found the cutest Santa’s Elf sleeper in JCPenny’s.”

“He’s gonna be the most doted and cherished pup in Idaho.” Sam comments.

“Damn right.” Dean agrees with a tagged on yawn. Benny holds his hand out for Dean’s cell phone. It is time to catch forty winks before Alex wakes. “Sammy, I gotta go. I’ll call you later, and we’ll see you soon.”

“Sure will,” Sam promises. “Can’t wait for the holidays.”

“Me too.” The phone slips from Dean’s fingers. Benny plumps his pillows and ensures his mate is resting comfortably. As Dean falls into well deserved sleep, he sees flames flickering, but this is no nightmare flashback. Pine scents the air. Candy canes and stockings frame their hearth as a Christmas fire is drawn high and cheerful. In this premonition, Dean curls on their sheepskin rug, with Alex, in his red elf sleepsuit, tucked against him. Benny kneels beside them distracting Alex with a colorful plushy toy, while Sam is spread out relaxing on their sturdy deep sofa watching the family’s celebration of their first Christmas.

+++++++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSPN+++++++++++++++++++++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the epilogue to come…
> 
> I am going to miss this fic. Thank you to everyone who has bookmarked, subscribed, commented or left kudos. Your comments have bought me joy and encouraged me to continue to write this story. You all rock!


	17. Epilogue

“Where’s Alex? Where is Alex gone?” Dean shuffles on his knees, round the corner of their sofa. 

Fits of giggles emanate from under a soft fleecy choo-choo-train patterned blanket. A blond head with big green eyes appears.

“Boo!”

“There’s my Alex!” Dean covers his O-shaped mouth in fake-surprise.

“Me up.” Dimples appear in the 21-month old’s rosy cheeks as he raises his arms for his newly home Poppa to comply with his demand.

Dean checks he has removed his sharp cornered name pin, before he lifts his darling boy from his hiding spot. Small slightly sticky hands wrap around his neck, playing with the edge of his collar. A sloppy raspberry flavored kiss smacks Dean’s cheek.

“Poppa.” Alex pronounces simply.

Dean adorns his son’s face with his own kisses. He adjusts his hold on Alex so he can look his little one in the eye. “Were you a good boy for Daddy today?”

“Uh-huh,” Alex bobs his head rapidly, “Me’s very good.”

Rising to his feet, Dean carries their boy though the kitchen. Benny has taken his coffee to sit on their lawn chairs. It is a hot early September afternoon. A mountain breeze makes it more pleasant to be outside than in. The alpha grins widely seeing his favorite people coming to join him.

“You want me to take our boy while you wash up?” Benny asks as Dean lets his slightly squirming toddler out of his hold so Alex can plunk his diaper clad butt in the grass next to his Daddy’s legs.

Raising one eyebrow, Dean makes an exaggerated motion to sniff his armpit. “You saying I stink, Alpha?”

Benny smirks, “Only of good things, Sugar.”

Dean shakes his head affectionately, “I’ll change outta my work threads. Won’t be a minute.”

“Take your time, Darlin’.” Benny adds languidly, “Us alphas will guard the garden against all invaders.”

Alex pops his head up, insisting “My garden.”

Dean chuckles as he ducks indoors. Since early summer, Alex has been putting a few words together to form mini-sentences. Most of them seem to involve ‘My house’, ‘My Poppa’, ‘My cookie’. It cracks Benny up, especially when Alex stamps his little foot. Dean’s highlight is when Alex wants ‘My Poppa’ to take his hand, yet is determined to mount the stairs. The omega suspects that Alex is capable of balancing well enough to take the stairs without stumbling, but his boy seems to preen when his Poppa helps him out. 

Dean finds his son’s independent spirit adorable. Maybe this comes naturally to young alphas, bringing Lil’Sammy to mind. However Dean will not stereotype his pup. Alex can have clingy moments, times when only cuddles will satisfy his grabby hands, or when he wants nothing more than to snuggle with his plushy black bear pressed to his nose. Most clingy, and possibly sulky, moments come when Dean gets home from his once-a-week full day at work, or the rare hunt. Dean occasionally takes on a nearby straight-forward salt’n’burn that will not keep him away for more than one night. Benny has assured him that if he is ready to try a hunt more than a day’s drive away, his mate is more than capable of keeping their son watered, fed and amused. Plus they have a trusted sitter to take care of their pup when needed. Soon after Alex’s first Christmas the Lafitte mates were introduced to Eucharia Isolo. The middle aged Mumu-wearing-omega sits her own grandpups for her working daughters, and came recommended to sit Alex when Dean would have his next heat. With a background check courtesy of Bobby’s secret contact, and good vibes when they met her, Auntie Eucharia became their go-to sitter and family friend, who takes Alex during the one day that his fathers’ shifts overlap, and most importantly for date nights, or ‘knot nights’ as Dean calls them. Dean works part time at the local Chevrolet dealership. He has hopes that his beta boss will let him get his hands dirty more often in the auto shop, but for now as this year’s newbie he is happy to talk cars all day at front of house. Omega buyers tend to deliberately seek him out for his opinions, and as a consequence of Dean’s hire, the dealership’s sideline in pup car seats has gone into hyperspace, all due to alphas being persuaded by their mates to heed Dean’s recommendations. 

When Alex is down for his afternoon nap, Benny surprises Dean with an indulgent wild raspberry and almond pie, freshly warm from the oven, a blob of vanilla cream sliding over the sweet crust.

They curl on the sofa, a re-run of the Dr Sexy episode where hot yet earnest Dr Piccolo loses her memory on their muted TV. Dean has seen it multiple times. He hums around his soft juicy creamy pie filling.

“You’re the best.” He compliments, pushing back into his alpha.

“Pie talking.” Benny sing songs to the tune of the Bee Gees ‘Jive Talkin.’

“Well I ain’t telling no lies.” Dean says with his open mouth full.

“I believe you,” Benny teasingly sneaks his hand under Dean’s tee, stroking and rubbing in a rhythm that goes straight to Dean’s cock. 

The omega shuffles about, trying to consume final mouthfuls of deliciousness, while denying how his body is responding, scent of slick filling the air and Benny’s nostrils. A rumble of desire from his alpha and Dean is flinging his arms backward, twisting his body to cover his mate as much as possible. Benny totally gets with the program. His hard length teases Dean’s crack. They race, fumbling, licking, grabbing, and kissing to remove their summer clothing. 

Dean throws his head back, sigh expelled, watching Benny come closer and closer. His hole twitches, sweet slick flooding.

“Good thing these covers are machine washable.” Benny snorts.

“Shuddup.” Dean urges. “Shut the freak up and take me freaking now.”

“Your wish is my…”

Benny never gets to say ‘command’. Dean rises to smash their lips together. He digs his nails into the firm meat of his alpha’s shoulders, growls possessively as Benny lifts him, tight skin to skin. The alpha’s teeth graze over Dean’s mating mark, sucking, renewing his claim. 

“Alpha,” Dean moans.

“My Dean,” Benny puffs, manhandling his mate so Dean is on top, knees pressing into sofa cushions. 

Dean’s eyes flutter as he lowers his body, achingly slowly, taking Benny in. He feels more than sees Benny’s thumb tipping the cleft of his chin. Bobbing his head forward the omega takes the digit into the hot cavern of his mouth, pulling hard sucks as he is filled by his alpha. Benny’s other hand spans his spine. His alpha’s head lowers to lick teasingly across Dean’s leaking slit. 

“Mon Dieu,” Benny groans, beard scratching Dean’s sensitive cock. 

It is almost too much stimulation, the pressure of Benny’s thumb, the attention paid to his rock hard cock, clenching, riding his alpha. Dean climaxes with a hissed cry of “Alpha”, painting his mate’s face in ropes of pearly come. Benny shakes, eyes roll back. He slips his thumb from Dean’s lips, grips him almost too tight, and comes long and hard. Dean winces as his rim is caught by the beginnings of Benny’s knot. His alpha murmurs an apology. 

“Shush,” Dean soothes, curling round his mate’s body. They’ve perfected mating without knotting, having their little one always in mind. Benny’s biology sometimes flatters Dean by popping a knot before the omega can be filled by his alpha. Those are their more adventurous bedroom times.

His alpha plants lazy kisses along Dean’s neck and upper spine. It is a familiar welcome act, their precious morning moment after Benny buckles Dean’s collar. 

Tucked into Benny’s hold, head resting on the cushioned sofa arm, Dean could almost fall into a post-coital nap. Unfortunately his alpha finds it a good time to impart a message.

“Darlin’,” Benny mutters sleepily, “Forgot to say your Dad called while you were at work.”

That’s done it. In a pavlovian reaction, adrenalin pumps through Dean’s veins. He bounces off the sofa, straightening his back, standing to attention. His eyes seek the landline handset, or where he dropped his keys and cell. 

“No fire.” Benny drawls slowly, “No mayday.”

Dean lets out a breath he had not known he was holding. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Benny nods, eyes concernedly checking that Dean is leaving alert-response mode behind. “Y’know, he don’t like spilling any beans to my civilian ears, but he said to tell’ya Peoria was a bust out, all clear.”

Dean nods. He spies his cell phone peeping out from under Alex’s pop-up Old MacDonald’s Farm book. “I’m gonna return his call, y’know, just in case.”

Benny hums knowingly, “I’ll go wash up and see if the real alpha of the house is stirring.”

“Thanks, Alpha.” Dean tilts his cheek for a kiss as Benny passes him. He gets a shoulder squeeze bonus.

“You wanna ask him what we discussed?”

“Uh-huh,” Dean confirms with a shrug, “I’ll give it a try.”

“Good,” Benny nods.

Alone, Dean takes a deep inhalation. He perches on the edge of the chair closest to their hearth, cupping his phone in his palm. Calling John is a fairground wheel of fortune. Sometimes it spins to voicemail or ‘not now’. A year and a half ago, it had began with a terse enquiry of whether Dean was Okay and Benny was treating him right. Only on a second call, more than a month later, did Dean get to tell John that he had a grand-pup. Since then short calls have been regular, at least once a week, a pattern that is kind of an organic role reversal, where John is now the lone-hunter who checks in with his son. 

“Dad?”

“Hey, Son.”

Today John’s voice is warm, the honey of it feeding Dean’s need to keep his family close in heart, to know that his distant alpha Dad and brother are safe.

“You sound tired,” Dean ventures.

“You can tell that from two words?” John queries, “Been straight up cases all summer long. Don’t know what’s so special about 2005, but it’s been a bumper year for omens and messy crap.”

Dean hums. He knows from their calls and the wide spread of co-ordinates he received by text. 

“I got one you might want.” 

“Something in this neck of the woods?” Dean’s voice rises in surprise. He rubs the warmed pewter clasp at the back of his collar.

“Hoodoo trouble brewing down in New Orleans…”

“Dad!” Dean interrupts to reiterate his policy of staying local.

“Hear me out.” John commands.

Dean gulps at the taster of days gone by, but he complies, pressing his lips together and listening carefully.

“No fatalities, yet. Rumors of some Hoodoo priest conning the unsuspecting desperate. Pinged my attention because animal sacrifices can be reporter-speak for demonic mutilations. This time it looks like plain nasty magic that needs stopped, but it’s not immediate priority. Thought you might take a family road trip with your Louisianan alpha, visit your mate’s old haunts and deal with the case along the way.”

John has it all planned out. To the alpha hunter taking a toddler on the road to face a Hoodoo situation is perfectly reasonable. A tiny part of Dean is tempted by the way his alpha father has spoken about visiting Benny’s roots. He continues to hear John’s spiel of how they didn’t need to drop tools and hustle there, but could work around their commitments, maybe go in a few weeks time. However Dean has vowed that he will not take his pup on the road. 

“I don’t think so, Dad.” Dean’s voice is firm, but his stomach twists at disappointing his father, dashing any hopes that John may harbor about having Dean available to pick up his slack. 

“I suppose I’ll get around to it eventually,” John sighs.

Guilt at the thought of people being wounded in the meantime burns the back of Dean’s throat, but the omega has got his own priorities to think of, and Alex trumps all. A thought occurs to him.

“Did you get a lead out of Peoria? Do you think it is the thing that killed Mom?”

“I dunno, Dean, but I can’t ignore this.” It is said with a measure of admonishment as if Dean was asking his father to change his plans.

“You could get help?” Dean suggests, “Ask Bobby?”

That meets with a huff.

“Annie Hawkins overnighted with us. She says there’s this hunters’ roadhouse in Nebraska…”

“I know of The Roadhouse,” John snaps. “I work solo, without alpha fools thinking they know better than me.”

“Yessir,” Dean represses a sigh. Since they have taken on Harry Mason’s old home, the young hunter has learned the valuable benefit of sharing tales and lore with other hunters. However there is no reasoning with John. Perhaps if it warrants, his stubborn Dad will go to Jim Murphy for his expertise. Thinking of any way to help, Dean offers, “We could find someone for the New Orleans case?”

“No, Boy, I’ll make it work.” John replies gruffly.

“What are your plans?” Dean’s hand scrubs the back of his collar, unsure that John will divulge.

“Wrap up here. I got a thing needs doing in Minnesota. I might head for The Big Easy, but if not I’ll send you co-ordinates.”

“And you’ll check in?”

“I will.” John promises. It’s as close to a measure of apologetic familial connection that Dean is going to get, so he gladly takes it.

Rushing headlong while John is agreeable, “Dad, y’know Alex will be two just after Thanksgiving? You could come. Sam is bringing Jess to meet us. You could meet her and Alex? You’d be more than welcome.”

“We’ll see, Son. Depends on where this trail will take me.”

“Sure, Dad.” Dean masks his disappointment but holds onto the fact that he didn’t receive a downright refusal.

They say their farewells. Benny appears like a blessed apparition. Dean lifts his arms in imitation of their toddler asking to be picked up. His alpha swamps him, somehow ending with Dean pressed against the blue cotton of his clean Henley, legs splayed across Benny’s lap. Dean tucks his nose under his mate’s ear, drawing solace from his wondrous scent.

“Bad?” Benny enquires.

Dean doesn’t remove his nose to shake his head in a negative.

“I take it we won’t be graced with his presence for Thanksgiving.”

“Dunno,” Dean murmurs, “He didn’t say yes or no.”

Benny huffs, “If he is coming he’d better behave, or his ass will be dumped in the snow with his dinner over his head.”

Dean chuckles at the image conjured, adding a jaw-dropped shocked face to his Dad and Benny with Sam, both with hands on hips, standing on the porch. 

A warm hand spans his spine, stroking softly.

“You good, Mon Cher?” Benny croons.

“Peachy.” Dean whispers truthfully. He’s got his alpha ready to stand by his side no matter what November brings.

That evening Dean follows tradition, taking a beer out to the porch swing. He dials Palo Alto interrupting Jess and Sam. According to his brother, Dean has saved Sam from having his ass whipped at Grand Theft Auto by his omega girlfriend. He relays the details of his conversation with John. Sam goes ominously silent. For a moment, Dean fears that Sam is gonna pull out of coming to Idaho in order to avoid John, but his brother is in on their plans and agrees the time was right.

Instead Sam expels a long huff, “Dean, I don’t like this offering you hunts cross the country.”

“I wasn’t gonna take it.” Dean squawks.

“You know what he is like. This could be the first request before he wears you down with cases from New York to Georgia to Arizona. When he is on the Pacific, he knows you’ll take the Atlantic hunt.”

“No, Sammy. You’re talking about the past.” Dean shakes his head. “I’m not moving my butt. No freaking way am I leaving my pup or taking him with.”

“I hear you.” Sam’s sigh speaks of relief, that John hasn’t changed Dean’s mind. There hadn’t been a chance of it. “Guess Benny and Alex get first dibs.”

“They get all dibs.” Dean chuckles.

“I registered for the LSAT,” Sam relays.

“So you’re definitely going for the Matlock future,” Dean ribs.

“Hey, Jerk, I don’t know what branch of law I want yet, and please, Perry Mason if you’ve gotta provide a classic TV lawyer.”

“You wish, Bitch.” Dean chortles.

“Goodnight, Dean.” Sam insists.

Dean can hear Jessica calling her own goodbye, as he bids his brother good luck.

The following morning Dean carries his newly bathed pup to the kitchen for breakfast. Alex pouts when he is lowered into his high chair.

“Hey Alpha Frowny Face,” Benny waves his spatula, evoking a beaming smile as Alex tilts his head to scent his Daddy and sizzling bacon. Turning to his mate, Benny bumps their hips together, “Mornin’ Darlin’”

“Morning, Alpha,” Dean adds a quick cheek peck, before pouring a mug of strong hot coffee and opening the refrigerator. “You want juice, Alex Pup?”

“Jooooos!” Alex cheers.

Filling a blue sippy cup, Dean is surprised by another kiss to his exposed neck. Arms wrap around his waist.

“Love this.” Benny murmurs.

“Huh?” Dean asks with an affectionate grin thrown over his shoulder.

“Can’t keep my paws off you, Sugar. My handsome wonderful omega, our adorable pup, a shared day off, sun shining, raspberries to be harvested, and time to sit together for breakfast, what more could anyone want?”

“Benny Lafitte, my silver tongued southern gentleman alpha, you know you’re everything I need.” Dean takes his turn to bump hips.

Alex watches his daddies with a beady eye, soaking in every interaction. Whatever he picks up this morning leads to unknown patience by the hungry pup, who contentedly sucks on his juice while Dean and Benny caress, prepare their simple meal, and caress some more.

Dean flicks to Classic Rock on the radio. Foreigner’s ‘Cold as Ice’ has Alex tapping his plastic spoon. Dean is proud of his son’s rhythm, while Benny mutters over the skillet about never getting his pup a drum kit. 

The back to back play changes to ‘I Want to Know What Love Is.’ If Dean was in the Impala with Sammy, he’d be obliged to avoid such a chick flick tune. Here he can mouth along, swaying his hips, almost misty eyed at how the lyrics fit his family.

Humming that he knows love has finally found him, Dean feels the whack of the dish cloth against his butt.

“Hey Rockstar,” Benny teases, “Grubs up.”

“Yes, Alpha.” Dean replies with a coquettish smirk.

He ruffles Alex’s hair, takes his seat between Benny and their pup for their lazy day breakfast.

When their meal is done, Benny takes their plates to the sink, while Dean cleans his protesting pup’s face with a few wet wipes. He lifts Alex from the highchair, checking his shoes are securely on, and sets his son on his feet. Alex’s hand rises to take his Poppa’s. They make their way out to the back porch. Sunshine heightens the verdant pastures beyond. Dean smiles at his vibrating pup.

“Rap Berries?” Alex proves he is clued into the day’s plans.

“Yep,” Dean agrees, lifting Alex onto his hip and pointing out the bushes they will harvest. He cocks his head back towards the kitchen window. Benny has re-donned his apron and is up to his elbows in washing suds. The alpha winks at his mate and son. Dean responds with a joy-filled grin.

The omega stands upright, tall and satisfied. If he had chest feathers, they would plump. This is his life, his family, his home, his love. It makes him burst with pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has read, left kudos, commented, subscribed or bookmarked. It has been a pleasure. 
> 
> <3


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